


sunshine on my back

by somethingdifferent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 35,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He can still feel the ghost of her fingers running along his skin, flighty and irregular as she touched him and looked up at him and smirked like she knew what she was doing - like she knew every little thought running through his mind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clever girl, he thinks admiringly.</em>
</p><p>[the one where Petyr's a surgeon and Sansa's a hospital volunteer]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Then You're Cracked Open

_The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.  _

(PHILIP ROTH)

 

 

 

 

After it's over, he really wants nothing more than sleep and a cigarette, in either order: sometimes he thinks he'd almost enjoy the fire it could set. But he still has to go talk to the family, he still has to do his due diligence and tell them that their father won't be coming home and they'd best start making reservations and signing documents. Until he became a doctor, he had no idea how much paperwork death entailed.

He had died not even halfway through the surgery. Cat will blame Petyr for that, of course.

To get through to the waiting room, he has to go past the gift shop, which is full to the brim with confused-looking people buying big, overly bright flowers and get well soon bears. He briefly considers going in and getting something for when he breaks the news. Maybe he could get one of the bears and rip off the heart it's holding, replace it with a sign that says, "Your husband died, we did everything we could." Feed them the party line in written form, that'd be a change.

She'll say he could've done more, he knows this. If he's being honest with himself, he might have been able to. Now that's something no surgeon wants to admit to themselves, let alone others - sometimes when it comes to life and death, it's a matter of how the doctor is feeling that day. Whether they really think the person has a shot once the anesthesia drains from them, whether they like the person when they're awake, whether one of the daughters or sons or husbands or wives or whoever is waiting on the other side of that glass made him feel something that stirred somewhere underneath the ribs, where his heart should be (Sansa had been the only one who cried, he remembers, and she had looked so lovely doing so).

It wasn't just him, he'll remind her, there were other people in the room, but even as he thinks it he knows Cat won't buy that, she won't look at him the same after this. Perhaps he could have tried more, he thinks. That's what she trusted after all, it's why they chose him to do the surgery.

People have a terrible habit of that. Trusting him.

When he makes it to the waiting room, they all stand up, anxious. The younger daughter - he can't remember her name - she looks at his scrubs like she expected to see something there, maybe had expected blood. Don't worry, he wants to tell her, it's all gone now. Swirled down the drain of a sink or stuck to gloves at the bottom of a trash heap and called medical waste. He had been very careful about getting all of it off.

There must be something in his face, because Cat abruptly brings a hand to her mouth, gasps not like she's in shock, but like she suddenly can't breathe. He's not even halfway through it ("He didn't make it, I'm sorry," and then the next sentence something repeated so often it's become meaningless, become something to practice in the mirror, get his eyes right and voice at the proper pitch, do the hospital proud, _we did everything we could_ ) before Catelyn has collapsed into a chair and Robb has put his face in his hands and Arya has gathered her brothers around her waist, looking like she's trying to stop herself from breaking in half, and Sansa has begun to cry again, her pale hands trembling and her eyes fluttering.

He stays away from all of them, just stands there and waits and it's not even another ten seconds before Robb has composed himself, set his face in stone, and turned to Petyr to hear what happened.

The little king, Robb Stark. It's what they always called him.

He conveys the necessary information as quickly as possible (he leaves out everything about how he had looked at the end, how he had not even been conscious and shouldn't a man be present for his own death? Petyr had wondered if he had at least been deliberate with his last words), and once Robb seems satisfied, Petyr leaves them, all of them dividing slowly into halves, and him just someone passing through to relay to them the worst news they will ever hear when for him, for any doctor, it's just another endless night at work.

Before he goes, he can see Sansa pulling her hands through her red, red hair, her face crumpled as she doubles over, like the pain is in her stomach and not in her head and after a moment, if she waits long enough, it will go away. And knowing even as she does so that it won't.

Perhaps he could have done more. It's too late, now. He could really use that cigarette.

As the doors close, he can still hear Ned's daughter weeping, but after a moment even that fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I watched Calvary (which is very good, by the way, I recommend it and not just for Aidan Gillen), and after it was over I started to wonder, where are the Petyr Baelish as a cynical doctor fics? Where are they. We need more. 
> 
> This is my first multi-chapter fic on this website (my first being on fanfiction.net, under the same handle; it's still there, so check it out if you want to see my first fic, as self-indulgent and ridiculous as it is, of the 9th Doctor and Rose) (Jeez, I didn't even watch Doctor Who after season two). I tend to update every week, usually on the same day but sometimes a day early or a day late. The chapters for my only other multi-chapter were around three thousand words each, but they'll probably be shorter here, as you can tell by this.
> 
> Since this _is_ an AU, the characters will be significantly toned down, though I have tried to make them as true to the show (I haven't read the books, don't kill me) as possible. Things here aren't such a matter of life and death since it is the real world, so my Petyr is going to be less malevolent. If him being malevolent is your jam, respect, because it is also mine. But not in this particular fic.
> 
> Oh, and finally, the title is from a song by The National of the same name.
> 
> Okay, that's enough talking. I hope you guys liked my second foray into Petyr/Sansa territory!


	2. Weight or Lightness

_ Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness? _

(MILAN KUNDERA)

 

 

 

 

The funeral is large, which was to be expected. Ned was popular and well-liked, and Petyr knows that there are people from no fewer than three other states here to grieve for him. At least, he thinks, it means that he won't need to face the family again, not if he doesn't want to.

He hasn't been in a church since he was a child, not even for Cat's wedding. He hadn't gone to it, had gone to work and was in surgery during the ceremony. He forgot details about these cathedrals, the way the candles are always alight, the way the sun looks through the stained glass, the way the priest's weathered hands look as they raise a chalice toward the ceiling, the obligatory statue in the back of Christ on the cross. The crucifix in this particular church is more brutal than the usual fare. When he passes by the open casket, he can see the marble flesh peeling away under the thorns, around the nails at the hands and feet.

Ned Stark looks sterile in death, just like anyone else, wrapped as he is in his best suit, his hands folded artificially over his chest. Petyr thinks for a moment about what the funeral director must have done - pictures the makeup, the dressing of the body, the spiked caps to keep his eyes closed. It was better back with the Greeks, using coins to keep them shut. More dignified than this pageantry.

He should be feeling grief, guilt, sorrow,  _something_ , but the most emotion he can muster for the dead man is pity. He walks by the coffin without saying a prayer, almost hopes someone will call him out on it, but no one says a word, and no one looks at him. Some people are crying. Some of them are only doing it to look grief-stricken, to arouse sympathy, and he hates them for it, these vultures.

In the front row, the Stark family sits together, each draped in black, none of them making a sound. Cat is studiously avoiding him, and she gazes straight ahead, toward the altar, but Sansa looks up at him as he passes. Her face is white as chalk but she is not crying, she is just sitting there, a perfect lady, with her hands folded together in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle.

Her eyes, which focus on him like he is a point of perspective, like she is spinning and needs something to grasp at as she does, are bluer than any he has ever seen.

He wants to keep looking at her, but the line of people keeps moving like it's a line of any other kind, like they're waiting for the cashier at a grocery store. This is how it always feels, him getting swept up in this crowd of people who care more than he does, much more.

He's a doctor, he knows all about funerals.

After the cemetery, Petyr goes home. There's no use, really, in attending the luncheon. He doesn't know anyone there worth talking to except for the family, and none of them want to speak to the surgeon who didn't save the beloved Ned Stark.

By the open grave, Cat had only spoken to him once, had only said to him, "Don't stand there. That's where Robb is supposed to stand."

So after the burial, he doesn't follow the parade of mourners; he pulls the little orange flag off of his car, and he drives back home to sleep or drink or sit alone in silence.

His house, unsurprisingly, is empty.

When Petyr dies, half of everything he owns will go to Cat and the other half to the hospital. His house, his clothes, his furniture, they can be auctioned, donated, broken into pieces; it won't matter to him, after all. He wonders who would attend his funeral, and decides on no one.

Maybe he should be cremated. That would be appropriate at least.

He turns his lighter over and over in his hand, and he doesn't move even when the room begins to go dark.

 

* * *

 

 

There is nothing waiting for him when he wakes up, abruptly, from where he fell asleep on the couch in the living room. He's not on call today, has nothing scheduled because there is nothing to do and no one to see and he actually enjoys it, in the sort of perverse way that he enjoys most things, this being alone.

Varys always said he was a masochist. An amoral, selfish, arrogant masochist.

Petyr had always considered those qualities to be the makings of a great doctor.

He spends hours wandering around his house, ordering food in, compulsively refreshing his email, turning on music that he listens to in the living room, without moving, without sleeping. He finishes the book he started three months ago and never had any time to read. He watches one movie playing on the television, then two, and when they're over he can't remember what either were about.

His cell phone rings, shattering the silence he had grown accustomed to, and he jumps. The number blinking on the screen is unknown, a local area code.

"Hello?" he says quietly after picking up the phone, as if there were someone to disturb with the sound.

There's a moment where he's sure the person on the other end of the line has left, but then: "Dr. Baelish?"

His breath seems to catch for a moment in his throat. "Sansa," he says, shifting the phone to his other ear.

"I wanted to thank you. For coming to the funeral."

"It was nothing," he replies, and he wonders if she knows that he isn't really lying. "How is your mother?"

"She doesn't know I'm calling," Sansa says quickly, responding to a question he didn't ask. "She doesn't want me to speak to you."

 _You shouldn't._ "There was nothing anyone could have done, sweetling."

There's a tremor in her voice when she replies, "I know."

Petyr can still remember the first time he ever saw Sansa, three years ago, when Ned first became ill. She had just turned fifteen. He remembers thinking that in no time at all she would be grown, and she would look just like her mother, and mixed in with his nostalgia there was something else he felt at that thought, something worse that he couldn't name, at least not out loud.

He remembers that her smile had come easier, then.

(He remembers, too, that he was only half-right about her looking like her mother - he could never have predicted that Sansa would be even more beautiful.)

"Did you need something?" he asks.

"Will you be at the hospital tomorrow?"

He wasn't expecting that question. "Yes, I have a surgery scheduled for the morning. Why?"

For a beat, she says nothing at all, and he can hear her breathing, the sound of it sending a shiver up his spine. He imagines, fleetingly, what it would be like to see her in this moment, right now. He imagines that she has her fingers wrapped tightly in the telephone cord, even if he knows, objectively, that she is probably calling on her cell. He imagines that she has her hair pulled up off the back of her neck, that she is running her long, delicate fingers along her pale throat. "Thank you again, Dr. Baelish," she murmurs at last. "I'll see you."

"Call me Petyr," he says. But by the time he gets the words out, she has already hung up, and all that he can hear is the dial tone stuttering its reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you guys so much for the positive feedback! I love these two, but I have difficulty writing fic for darker pairings without making it more sentimental than it should be, so just be aware that there is a definite danger of that happening. You've been warned.
> 
> Also, I just realized that my second multi-chapter fic with a surgeon as the male lead. Except this is a very different character. Maybe I'm just really into doctors.


	3. Headlong Deficit

_ He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought that the world’s heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world’s pain and its beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower. _

(CORMAC MCCARTHY)

 

 

 

 

Sansa is at the front entrance of the hospital when he arrives the next morning, and he's not nearly as surprised as he should be. On the bench just outside the automatic doors, she sits with a thermos in her hands, pressing her fingers against the sides of it like she's trying to warm them up. It's nearly winter in Chicago, yet she's waiting outside.

For him.

Petyr has seen grief before, knows this is just another variation of it, just another manifestation of her searching for something - someone - to replace her father. And who better than the man who (arguably) killed him, than the man at the very top of her mother's list of People to Avoid? If he were a good man, he'd tell her to go home, mourn with her siblings, her mother, her friends from school. He'd be cruel for her sake.

He walks toward her, smiling. She is a sight, even this early, with her hair down around her shoulders and her long legs bare under her dress. She always was a summer child, Cat would say, and she always had trouble adjusting to the colder weather, every year. Like it comes as a shock to her every single time.

"Dr. Baelish," she greets him, her eyes bright and lips curling up in a facsimile of a smirk, and it isn't fair, he thinks, to anyone around when this girl is here; everyone else pales in comparison. "Good morning."

He briefly repeats the sentiment, but keeps walking past, in through the doors. He does have a job, after all, and her fall break doesn't apply to him. She quickly follows, taking a place at his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You can call me Petyr, Sansa. You're grown now, after all."

"Petyr," she amends, her cheeks coloring. As they walk, the nurses and doctors stare, most as discreetly as possible, but some with expressions of open confusion and amazement at the young woman choosing to walk and have a conversation (without any animosity - visible or otherwise) with Petyr Baelish. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes." He glances sideways at her. "But I'm sure you're about to fill me in. And make it quick, I need to start getting ready."

"I'm dropping out of school," she says suddenly. Petyr pauses at the door to the break room, unsure of how to respond, and he can see the doctors waiting inside looking at him oddly, like he's sprouted an extra head, like he's an entirely new person that they've never seen before, and he's about to turn back and speak when she hastily continues, "I don't mean _dropping out_ dropping out. I'm taking the rest of the year off."

Petyr scans the room, watching all the doctors watching him, before taking Sansa by the arm and pulling her a little into the hallway. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"It's already done. It's only my first year, and USC says they'll allow my deferral based on special circumstances." She shrugs. "Arya and Bran and Rickon need someone here."

"And you think that person needs to be you? You have two other brothers." For a second she doesn't say anything, just looks down, and it's only then that he notices he hasn't let go of her arm. He releases her too reluctantly, folding his hand into a fist and pressing in until it hurts, then opening his palm again. "Your mother couldn't have allowed this."

"It's not up to her," she replies coolly, tilting her head to her side.

He must look foolish, he considers as he takes a half-step back. It feels as if he's seeing her for the first time. For all the brief moments that she appeared over the past three years, she's never seemed clearer (or harder or colder) than she has at this moment. "What are you doing here, Sansa," he says, his voice dropping off as if it weren't a question.

"I'm the newest hospital volunteer, Dr. Baelish," she replies, and smiles.

Petyr wonders, idly, if Sansa is aware that only she has ever had the capacity to make him speechless. After a moment of silence, her expression of satisfaction begins to fade, hesitation beginning to overtake her. She wears her heart on her sleeve, this girl. One day it won't serve her so well.

"I need -" he starts, then stops, abruptly, searches for the right words and finds none, and even as they stand there more people are passing by and he wants to scream at them, _she was here before, her father was dying, how could any of you see this girl as part of the background,_ but he doesn't say a word - "You and I can talk later," he says at last. "Once I save this man's life," he jokes, only regretting it when she flinches.

She steps closer and he should back away at that, shouldn't allow a young girl to be pressing so near to him when she looks as she does. She reaches her hand toward his chest and for a second Petyr can't breathe, but she only pulls out the pen he had forgotten was in his shirt pocket and leans back again.

"Call me on this number," she murmurs, taking his arm and pushing up the sleeve so that she can write on the inside of it. _Don't,_ he should say, _I'll end up losing it,_ but nothing comes out of his mouth but a rush of air. She looks up at him from under her eyelashes, almost shyly. She's still too close, he can tell now how she's really an inch or two taller than him.

"I will," he promises, beginning to regain some of the stoicism that she took from him. That's better, he decides, for her and him. "You and I will talk," he repeats, softer than before.

He can feel his mouth curling upwards; in her face he can see his expression reflected exactly as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did just confirm this to take place in America because I don't feel like googling every piece of British slang and I'm lazy. Think of this as an alternate universe Chicago where everyone has really weird names. Also, go ahead and pretend everyone has their regular accents because that's what I'm doing.
> 
> Okay next order of business, if you're not a fan of lengthy tangents, you can go ahead and skip all of this but okay hear me out:
> 
> Game of Thrones 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee AU, where instead of children it's all adults and it's cute but still ridiculously cutthroat and lasts like a week because everyone in Westeros County takes it _way_ too seriously. ("Life is pandemonium" = "Chaos is a ladder")
> 
> Like imagine Ned Stark being the favorite to win, but he actually ends up losing in the first fifteen minutes of the game because of an orchestrated minor allergic reaction to some cookies Cersei (who made a bet with Tyrion about Joffrey winning, clearly, since she was roped into being a judge this year and couldn't compete) set out in the common area right before the game, and Petyr was the one who didn't tell Ned that those cookies have peanuts in them, and then Ned and Cat gets pissed at him.
> 
> And imagine IMAGINE Stannis Baratheon being really serious about winning because of the ~dynasty~ because Robert won a couple years in a row and no one really cares about the legacy but HE DOES because the championship is his _by right._ And despite the fact that he's easily the best speller there he throws the game in the second to last day just to spite his broham Robert and also Renly, who was only playing to flirt with Marg's brother and make Stannis look like a nerd.
> 
> And Margaery Tyrell really wanting to win because her grandmother won like three titles back in the day and she talks all about her gay brother and her grandmother but she ends up losing because the pressure gets to her a little bit and she overcomplicates a really easy word. And Joffrey Baratheon losing at the very end of the first day, again because of Petyr being underhanded and convincing him to forfeit the game because spelling bees are for dorks and then Cersei is angry about that but Petyr is smooth jazz and doesn't give a fuck.
> 
> And Petyr, despite all of his sabotage and machinations that he spent like THREE MONTHS working out (SERIOUSLY GUYS HE MADE A GRAPHIC ORGANIZER AND EVERYTHING) ends up losing halfway through the last day because Cat (who continued to go even after Ned was eliminated just because she really likes spelling bees) forced high school senior Sansa to attend as punishment and Petyr ends up losing because of an unfortunate (ahem) _distraction._
> 
> AND IN THE LAST ROUND the only two people who are left are Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow who everyone apparently forgot was even competing, and obvi Dany is only playing to bring victory to her brother who lost last year. BUT THEN she competes for herself and turns out she's a really good speller (and also, Jorah as a reluctant judge who's only there as part of his mandatory community service). But then the glory goes to her head and she ends up losing.
> 
> And during his victory speech, which everyone thinks is going to be really tearful and stuff, Jon Snows (who is clearly Leaf Coneybear, even if Leaf doesn't actually win) goes off on this rant and whoops, turns out he was just competing so that people would realize he's really smart and stop saying that he "knows nothing" because he actually is the only person that didn't lose because of really dumb, easily avoidable reasons and c'mon, the words weren't even that hard this year.
> 
> LIKE JUST IMAGINE. Someone write this, I will pay you no money, but I will leave ten thousand comments and probably cry.


	4. Bad Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for ethnic slur used in this chapter

_ Maybe I'm not so good as I seem to you. I've a bad heart; I will have my own way. _

(FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY)

 

 

 

 

There are many things to consider, of course, before he goes any further with this. Whatever _this_ happens to be at any given moment; he's having trouble getting a handle on what the girl's intentions are.

Her father just died, he should remember. There was no love lost between he and Ned, but his death brings Petyr no satisfaction. It isn't like it will change anything with Cat. If anything, her husband's cancerous insides forced her to reconnect with Petyr, it allowed him to meet her children at last. All of that's shot to hell, now.

Except that Sansa Stark has her phone number written on the inside of his arm. Her handwriting is so neat, numbers curling and leaning heavily to the right, looking like something straight out of a romantic film. Before the end of the day he has the number memorized, has stared at it as if it might hold the secrets to the universe. He can still feel the ghost of her fingers running along his skin, flighty and irregular as she touched him and looked up at him and smirked like she knew what she was doing - like she knew every little thought running through his mind.

_Clever girl,_ he thinks admiringly.

 

* * *

 

**Fri, October 23,**  9:33 PM

_It's Petyr._

[9:33 PM]

.

_Petyr who_

[9:34 PM]

 

_Just kidding_

[9:34 PM]

 

_Thanks for texting. I just think you should have my number, for carpooling purposes._

[9:35 PM]

.

_That's reasonable._

[9:45 PM]

 

* * *

  

Varys is all too smug when Petyr sees him next. Petyr loathes him when he's like this, thinks he might like to punch his teeth in but wouldn't want to risk breaking his hand, so he just sits there and takes abuse and makes plans to fuck the other man over at the nearest possible opportunity. It should be easy, what with the annual fundraiser coming up. He knows Varys is trying to convince the board of trustees to sink more money into legal, but one word from Petyr to Cersei Lannister and the entire thing will go up in smoke.

With this thought, he's able to relax a bit as the other man rambles, unwittingly digging his own grave with every mention of the mysterious young redhead that everyone has decided he _must_ be fucking.

"It's crass, certainly," Varys acknowledges, "but they're trying to see you as flawed. Bring you to their level. Eating, sleeping, and having sex - the fundamentals of human nature, according to the general population. And most people here haven't seen you do any of those things."

"You know her," Petyr grits out, splitting his face in two with a smile that he knows doesn't reach his eyes, couldn't reach them even if he tried. "She's been here before, everyone's seen her. She's Ned Stark's daughter."

"Sansa Stark?" Varys' eyes widen comically, and Petyr would laugh in different circumstances, but he doesn't. "You're screwed, Baelish."

"Why?"

He leans forward, as if what he is about to say will change Petyr's life. "Don't you know she dated Joffrey Baratheon?"

Petyr furrows his brow, suddenly confused. He's been taken by surprise too many times as of late, and always because of Sansa. "Cersei's psychotic little rodent? That Joffrey?"

"Well, you know what they say about blood being thicker than water."

"I've never found that phrase to be particularly enlightening," Petyr deadpans.

"Neither have I, but one must use one's imagination in these matters."

"The girl's smarter than that."

"She's also eighteen," Varys points out. "A fact you shouldn't take as lightly as you seem to be."

"I'm not sleeping with her," Petyr replies evenly, but the other man only shrugs away that response.

"Not yet, anyway," he says.

 

* * *

  

**Fri, October 23,** 11:27 PM

_Omg nothing's happening_

[11:27 PM]

 

_Shit wrong person sorry_

[11:27 PM]

 

* * *

  

On Saturday, no one wants to look him in the eye. For all of the years he has worked here, he has never been the subject of gossip, has been too boring to ever be thought of, yet one conversation with Sansa Stark and no one can stop talking, talking, talking.

They think he can't hear them, the nurses and receptionists and even the doctors, when they remind each other of who he is, what he does, and call him Littlefinger as they speculate,  _no one knows the girl's name do you think she's underage she looks like jailbait I wonder if he'll go to prison for it I didn't know he even_ could.

But it doesn't matter, it doesn't mean a single thing to him because he still works, he's still better than ninety percent of the staff here and idle tittering about his personal life will do little to damage him. If it were the last time Sansa showed up at the hospital, the whispers would die down of their own accord, because people are essentially dull, vain creatures, searching for the next story to pass along. The problem will truly begin on Monday, when Sansa is set to begin volunteering and they'll be in the same building and he can't ignore her.

He has yet to think of a way to resolve that.

 

* * *

 

**Sat, October 24,** 2:35 AM

_Will you take me_

[2:35 AM]

 

_To the hospital n the morning_

[3:07 AM]

 

_On modnaay_

[3:10 AM]

 

_dr Baelish_

[3:30 AM]

 

_Petyr_

[3:32 AM]

 

_Petyr Petyr_

[3:35 AM]

 

_Petyrpetyrpetryperyrpetyetpryeoetyepetyrpeytperyroetyreoeterpteyrpteyrtpeyreortyerotyetypetyrpoetry Petyr_

[3:42 AM] 

.

_Yes._

[3:45 AM]

 

_At 8._

[3:46 AM]

.

_I knew you w ere awake._

[3:46 AM]

 

_I knew you were there_

[3:50 AM]

 

* * *

 

His week ends on Sunday, with no one dying, and it's only after work is over that he allows himself to think at all. In surgery, he can compartmentalize, he can stow away useless thoughts for another time as he stands there for hours, holding things open and blinking only rarely, separating his hands from the rest of himself and fixing the insides of people as if they were machines. And in a sense, they are.

When he was a boy, Sunday was kept as the Lord's day in the Tully household. Petyr was dragged to their masses, where the semi-devout sat in the cathedral with their hands clasped and raised up toward the heavens, and every girl in the building had red hair, black hair, red hair, black hair, red hair, red hair, red hair. His own father might've been an atheist, but the Tullys were seemingly the last of the proper Irish Catholic families, with their rosaries and their crucifixes and their guilt.

He can still remember it, going to those churches. Watching the way Cat's hair shone in the light of the candles that never gathered enough force to burn the place down, and being very careful not to react when they all called him freak, called him Polack, called him Littlefinger. He would sit in a pew with his back straight and swear to a God that wasn't there that he would not remain here, that once he left he wouldn't come back. And he got rid of every piece of himself that gave them power over him - his history, his accent, even his first name.

Now that he's grown, he enjoys working on Sundays, even if it proves nothing to anyone but himself.

But the day ends, and he's in the middle of washing his hands when he returns to his mind, and then he can't stop thinking, can't push the ideas away in favor of rooting through a stranger's body and blood.

Something must be done, there is no doubt of that. The planning is crucial, and everything must be taken into account. If her father has died, if her last name is Stark but she has the Tully hair, if she dated Joffrey Baratheon, if he will see her in the hospital, if she looks so much like her mother, if she is nothing like her mother, if she is not her mother and, for some reason, that is far better than what he could have anticipated - he thinks and considers and weighs the options, one by one by one.

Yet in the end, as with most of his decisions, one thing matters more than anything else, more than all of the possible consequences. He always was a betting man, and this is a city that rewards people for risking everything (or else punishes them beyond what should be natural, what should be human).

Petyr rereads the messages she sent him, smirking, and knows the choice has already been made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented! I don't normally do longer stories, so it's very exciting to see those messages :) And wow, I am updating way faster than I initially anticipated, partly because I'm very excited about this fic and partly because the chapters are a lot shorter than I'm used to writing and I just want to get to the next one! I'm terrible with cliffhangers of any kind. Once I start burning through actual plot, the updates will probably be further between.
> 
> To the reviewer who wondered what kind of music Petyr would listen to, I was wondering the same thing! I think in a modern AU he'd be on the surface all about classical music because he's rich and he interacts with rich people and he's got to keep up appearances, like going to fancy concerts and operas and shit. HOWEVER, modern Petyr Baelish is totally a closet Radiohead fan, because he really digs their lyrics like okay here:
> 
> "All hail to the thief/All hail to the thief/But I'm not.../Don't question my authority or put me in a box/Cause I'm not"
> 
> "Just cause you feel it/Doesn't mean it's there/There's always a siren/Singing you to shipwreck/(Don't reach out don't reach out)"
> 
> "I don't care if it hurts/I wanna have control/I want a perfect body/I want a perfect soul/I want you to notice/When I'm not around.../She's running out again"
> 
> Idk I just feel like modern Petyr Baelish totally digs alternative 90s music because that's what he listened to back when he was a teenager, not that he'd admit this to anyone.


	5. In Such Fashion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me watching petyr/sansa scenes in the new episodes is like (*with a danny devito voice*) JUST THROW ME IN THE TRASH

_ You are always looking at her. You look at her too much. It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion. Something terrible may happen. _

(OSCAR WILDE)

 

 

 

 

She's already walking down her street when he gets to her house. By the time his car catches up with her, she's at the end of the block, and it's only when he leans over and opens the passenger side door that she notices he's there.

Sansa slides into the car, stretching her long, long legs as she glances up and smiles slightly. Today, she has opted for something warmer than the last time he saw her, wearing tights and a dark dress made of some soft material - velvet? - that shimmers in the morning light. He thinks, briefly, of how it would look crumpled in a heap on his floor. But he shoves that thought away when she speaks.

"Good morning, Dr. Baelish."

"Good morning," Petyr replies, looking at her even as he puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.

The car ride is mostly silent until halfway there, when Sansa makes a big show of figuring out how to work his radio. She turns on some pop station (and he wonders ruefully when he stopped being able to recognize the singers, but here he is, attempting to recall the name of the newest one), and the sound is abrupt and loud coming through his speakers for the few seconds before she scrambles to turn it down. She huffs out shaky laugh as she leans back in the seat, and he can feel rather than see her eyes trained on him, on his reactions.

"Are you nervous?" he asks, and she nearly jumps, startled.

"No," she stammers, "it's just that it's my first day, is all."

That's not all, obviously, but Petyr doesn't push the issue. He wonders, idly, if she remembers what she sent him Saturday night, if she's embarrassed. If _he's_ what's making her nervous.

The thought gives him more pleasure than it should.

"I should warn you," he says, "there's been a change in what you'll be doing."

He glances over at her, gauging her response, but she only breathes out, "Oh?"

"They want you in pediatrics. Reading books, playing games, that sort of thing." (He says _they_ , as if he hadn't been the one who suggested it.) "They're having trouble getting long-term volunteers there. And the children need stability, you know." And it's in the wing of the hospital entirely opposite to the surgery center, so there's no chance of him getting distracted. Not that she needs to know this.

"That's great," Sansa replies, sounding a little relieved that the change is so insignificant. "I love kids."

"Of course you do," he mutters.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," he says. "We're here."

It's only once they get out of the car and Sansa is beginning to walk toward the doors - he always forgets how comfortable she is here, how she made this place a second home - that Petyr realizes something.

He stops in the middle of the parking lot, and asks suddenly, "How are you getting back?"

She turns, confusion turning the corners of her mouth down. "What?"

"I have work the whole day, you'll only be here for a few hours. How are you getting home?" He can't believe it's something he never considered, this essential fact. He has a procedure scheduled later, and yet he agreed to drive her without a second thought as to how she would get back.

"I was just gonna take the bus," she says, shifting on her feet. "Why?"

"Here." He fumbles through his pockets, producing his keys, and tosses them over to her. "Take my car today, I'll take the bus home. Do you really not have any other way to get here?"

"Mom and Robb need our cars for work," she explains, waiting as he catches up to her. "How did you think I was going to get back?"

"I don't know - I just never thought about it." A stupid mistake, he decides. He should never have allowed his judgment to be clouded by the promise of the day. He should have been more careful, more attentive to details. That's what he's known for, after all.

"I can bring your car here, when you're finished," she offers, and before he can say anything, she continues, "no really, I insist. After everything you've done for us."

_Like killing your father._ "That's very kind, Sansa," he says, smiling, and holds his arm out to gesture to the doors. "Shall we?"

She grins in return, walking past him and into the hospital.

After a moment, he follows her.

 

* * *

  

He's sure to take her to pediatrics first thing, allowing everyone to see who she is and why she's there - just another volunteer, completely insignificant. Once the mystery is solved, he can practically see the disappointment in their eyes, the excitement fading and replaced with that same boredom, that same apathy toward him. They must have been hoping for a repeat of a few years ago, with Tyrion Lannister and that prostitute. Or a few years before that, with Tyrion Lannister and that other prostitute.

He's a little surprised to find himself feeling slightly disappointed that they don't continue any more speculation, that now that she has been identified as a volunteer they don't pause to consider why she went to him, why she spoke to him. Even if he prefers to remain unnoticed, even if he would rather they focus their attentions elsewhere. Such is the nature of man, he supposes. To be constantly searching for the newest thing, then consuming it, then spitting out whatever's left before moving on. And then the vultures of the world consuming that, spitting out whatever's left, and moving on, repeated endlessly, endlessly, endlessly. Petty and disgusting, the whole vicious little routine.

Those who stay centered on one goal, whatever it happens to be, and then once that comes to them, finding the next logical steps - Petyr can appreciate that. Hell, he lives it.

From what he's seen of Sansa, he thinks she might live like that, too.

The day passes too slowly, even Varys and his unending supply of idle gossip doing little to help with his unease. Perhaps he made an error, in having her assigned to somewhere so far from him, because he can't stop thinking of it, even during his consultations - what she is doing, what she is thinking, if she is wondering the same things about him.

It's late when he finally gets out of surgery and calls for her to bring his car back. He wonders where she left it all day. She couldn't have brought it back to her own house, not when she's taking such pains to avoid her mother seeing him, yet instead of just taking the bus in the first place, she asked him to drive her. He cannot quite discern what she wants, and the idea throws him.

The girl is supposed to be in mourning. Is this denial, bargaining? It should matter to him, but it doesn't. Just that she chose this place, chose him as a point of focus. He should prepare, of course, for the time when the other shoe drops, and take care that he is not standing underneath it.

"Your car is really nice," Sansa calls out through the passenger side window as she pulls up by the entrance. "Hi, Dr. Baelish."

"Petyr," he corrects, but she doesn't even respond, only smiles briefly as he climbs in. She's still wearing that dress, and it makes her look so - he wouldn't have the words to describe it.

"How is he?" she asks once they're out of the parking lot, still behind the wheel. Perhaps he should have driven back, but he can't really bring himself to care about something so trivial at the moment, something so insignificant as the fact that no one has driven this car aside from himself.

"Who?"

"Your patient," she clarifies.

"She died," he says simply. No use in disguising such a thing in flowery words, not when the result is the same. In the dark, he can only see her expression as they pass underneath the yellowed streetlights, as cars roar past, their headlights blinding. At one flash, she seems like she might break into two, like she is about to fall apart, and by the next her face is cold, as immovable as stone. "Does that bother you?" he asks, and the answer is suddenly, vitally important.

As he watches, she begins to slowly shake her head.

"Happens to everyone, I suppose," she murmurs, her body lit momentarily by a passing car. He can see her for those few seconds, her red hair as it falls almost into her eyes, her knuckles turning white as she clutches at the steering wheel, the line of her jaw as it tightens and relaxes, and then she is in darkness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I do want to say briefly that I don't tend to respond to comments unless they're outright questions, but I read them and I love them and I get super psyched so don't think I am ignoring you!!! You guys are great (to be read as a very tiny girl saying that last word in a very aggressive interpretation of Tony the Tiger's catchphrase). As is anyone reading.
> 
> Honestly, just the fact that I put any kind of story out there that people read and enjoy enough to keep reading is astonishing. So thank you! :)
> 
> Also, I'm totally working on a playlist of songs that I listen to as I write this and it is...certainly something. One of these days I'll put up a tracklist because let's be honest, I'm very into hearing myself talk (reading myself talk?). Thank god for AO3 end notes.


	6. The Language of Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for domestic abuse discussed in this chapter

_ Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury. _

(MARK Z. DANIELEWSKI)

 

 

 

 

"What do you do with my car when you're not here?"

It's barely November, but outside it's snowing for the first time all year. Petyr watches the flakes fall past the window to the streets below, though they never even reach the ground. Across the cafeteria table, Sansa sits with a cup of coffee clasped between her hands, and she adopts an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression as she considers his question. They finished their lunch twenty minutes ago, but she isn't leaving, and neither is he.

He wonders if she recognizes the real meaning behind what he asked - _what are you like when I can't see you?_ \- but she always was a smart girl. She probably knows.

"It depends," she says finally, taking a sip of her drink without elaborating further.

"On?" he prompts.

At the frustration in his voice, she seems to only grow more amused, pursing her lips in an attempt to keep from laughing, and if it were anyone else, he'd be angry, but he's not, for some reason that he can't examine, not right now, at least.

"Sometimes I go back home, if I'm tired." She circles the lid of the cup with her finger, and he watches the motion, mesmerized. "Usually I just wait downtown. Sometimes I go shopping. Yesterday I went to the lake and read."

"It's a bit cold for that," he says idly.

She shrugs, the sleeve of her dress sliding off her shoulder before she pushes it back up. "Yeah, but that means no one is there. And sometimes I'll go to the Art Institute, if I feel like it."

"Let me guess," he smirks, "your favorite is the Seurat. All those fashionable people, all the little dots, you're a sucker for the whole thing, aren't you?"

She flushes, and the color is so pretty on her he wants immediately to see it again. "So what? It's a classic." When he laughs, she counters, bolder than before, "And stop pretending you're not just as much of a cliche. I bet you could spend hours looking at _Nighthawks_ \- I bet you're so into American realism it's not even ironic anymore."

She's not far off, truth be told. He always liked that one the most, the few times he's found himself at that museum, usually when kissing up to potential donors for the hospital. He likes the wash of electric light against the dark evening, likes the men in their suits and the woman with her red hair and the fact that there isn't a way out of the diner.

Has he become so transparent, that this girl can see right through him? Or maybe it's just that it's _her_.

"Who said anything about -" he begins, but Sansa's phone suddenly buzzes with a text alert, interrupting him.

"I have to check this," she murmurs apologetically. "Just a second."

He could kill whoever is on the other end of that message.

For a moment after reading it, she doesn't say anything, just looks at him nervously, something akin to fear in her eyes. Her hand, pale and thin, flits briefly to her side, but she quickly realizes her error and pulls it back to her lap. He's about to speak, his mouth already forming the question _what's wrong_ , when she stands abruptly, pushing her chair back into the table after she does. Always so polite, Sansa Stark, even in a panic.

"I have to go," she mutters hurriedly, pulling her shawl off of the chair and swinging her purse over her arm. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Then, before he can so much as say goodbye, she's gone, the only evidence that she was there the lingering scent of her citrus perfume and the styrofoam cup, half of her coffee still left untouched.

 

* * *

 

He can't stop thinking about it. She's so bright normally, so resilient, even after her father died, and he feels uneasy, seeing her in such a state. For the whole day he can't figure out what it is that made her leave so quickly, and it's only when he happens to walk by the row of conference rooms on his way to Varys' office that he realizes what the trouble was.

Through the windows he can see Cersei Lannister, her blonde hair shining in the fluorescent light, and Joffrey, his eyes blank and looking at everything in the room except for his mother.

Petyr can't slow down, can't glance at them for more than a moment, but he's tremendously grateful that he's already on his way to talk to Varys.

He's barely in his office, shutting the door quickly behind, when he begins: "Tell me everything you know about Sansa Stark and Joffrey Baratheon."

"No hello? I knew you were just using me, Baelish," Varys says, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly as he regards Petyr. "What is all this fuss about? Surely this can't all be a result of your delightful mentor-mentee relationship? What was the word you used, it was something ridiculous -"

"Are you going to do this for my entire break?"

" _Avuncular_ , that's the one! You know, I feel like all of our conversations recently are about Sansa Stark. When are we going to get back to the important things, like whether or not Jaime is really truly wooing that hulking woman Brienne? I mean, she must be at least half a foot taller than you."

Petyr settles into the chair across from the desk and leans forward, making sure Varys is completely focused on him. "I'll convince Cersei to give legal more money again," he promises, his voice low and private. "The fundraiser's on Saturday, do you really want to test your fate?"

Varys starts, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. "Again? What did you do to make that sentence end in _again_?"

"Will you tell me what I want to know?" he asks, and it's only when Varys nods, seemingly still annoyed about Petyr's apparent betrayal, that he relaxes into his chair.

"Well, you already know the basics," Varys begins loftily, gazing out of his wall-length windows overlooking the street. "Joffrey dated her last year, for about six months. _Head over heels_ is how Cersei put it. Then one day, she was suddenly out of his favor and every time she came here it was only when he wasn't around. This was around the time Ned's cancer came back, I think, poor girl. Joffrey's engaged to that Tyrell girl now, Margaery. A love story for the ages, as they say."

"That's not everything."

Varys glances over at him, tilting his head thoughtfully. "No," he agrees, "that's not everything."

He continues after a moment, his voice sharper than before. "He's a vicious bastard, Joffrey Baratheon. Well, Lannister. Let's do away with the formalities. Poor girl. Her father dying, and the boy she hangs all of her hopes on turns out to be - as he turns out to be." He pauses, taking a breath as if what he's about to say next is actually difficult for him, and it's only then that Petyr realizes that his own hand has drifted to his collarbone. He brings it back down to his knee and presses his short nails into his other arm until it hurts, then opens his fingers again. "It's the reason why they fired the Hound, you know. When he tried to intervene on the night Joffrey actually began to physically beat her. They couldn't fire Tyrion, though, it only ended because he happened to be in the house that night. Can you even imagine? Suffering like that at the hands of the one you love? The boy is a menace, in my opinion."

"He's a stain," Petyr mutters. "Something should have been done ages ago."

"Now, don't do anything drastic," Varys warns. "I know you believe you have a certain capacity to do things people less understanding than myself might find - _distasteful,_  but we are all law-abiding men, here."

"We kill every day," he replies, feeling unreasonably light-headed all of a sudden. "I know you lawyers might not get to see the actual results of what you do, but surgeons, we're covered in it. Everyone here has _a certain capacity_ to do things people less understanding might find distasteful. Otherwise, we'd all go insane."

He stands and walks to the door, pausing for a moment before he leaves.

"You know me, Varys," he assures the other man. "I never do anything without thinking through all the consequences. Should the opportunity arise, well - who am I to argue with destiny?"

Through the window, he can see how a fog has begun to drape itself over the city, the tops of buildings shrouded in the mist. Varys doesn't appreciate this place, as small and insignificant as he considers it to be.

Petyr is only privy to this kind of view here, the rest of his time spent in a dark room, blood on his gloved hands.

 

* * *

 

**Thu, November 5,** 8:12 PM

_I'm sorry about earlier. My friend said she needed help. Girl stuff, you know. I'm still going tomorrow at 8._

[8:12 PM]

 

_I just didn't want you to worry._

[8:13 PM]

.

**Fri, November 6,** 12:04 AM

_Don't be sorry_

[12:04 AM]

 

_Sansa._

[12:04 AM]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Varys, and his character is super interesting, but he's just so damn useful as exposition. Like, he's seriously called the Master of Whisperers. Plus, if this is Petyr's perspective, I feel like he's also mostly just interested in what Varys knows as opposed to who he is. So THERE.
> 
> Also, guys, I am so psyched about getting into backstories, but I have to be all "patient" and "not jumping the gun" with it, so that's gonna be a while. In the meantime, enjoy [this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqKZ_WIK5ms) of "Toxic" that will legit change your life and should be included in every Petyr/Sansa mix but is in _absolutely none at all._


	7. Sentiment

_ They had been corrupted by money, and he had been corrupted by sentiment. Sentiment was the more dangerous, because you couldn’t name its price. A man open to bribes was to be relied upon below a certain figure, but sentiment might uncoil in the heart at a name, a photograph, even a smell remembered. _

(GRAHAM GREENE)

 

 

 

 

 

The view from the balcony would have been enough to kill for, in other circumstances. As it is, Petyr doesn't need to resort to that kind of thing, not when he's already out here to smoke, like the whole thing is worth nothing more than the ashes he drops into the tray balanced precariously on the ledge.

There was a time in his life when he wouldn't have been allowed look through the glass to watch an event like this, let alone have been invited to it. He's wearing a suit that cost more than his childhood home; his cufflinks could have paid for his first car easily.

In the ballroom behind him is the same expense, mirrored dozens of times over as he passes by the Lannisters, by the Baratheons, the Tyrells, the Martells, names and faces of the highest tier of society, and all of them mingling pleasantly with _him_ , as if they don't know that his last name carries absolutely no weight, as if they have no knowledge of what he is called when they believe he can't hear them. Sometimes he can't believe that that relic of his childhood was the one thing that survived, but then again, yes, he can.

"Dr. Baelish," says a voice just behind him, heavy and slurred slightly from drink. "I should have known you'd be out here."

"Was someone looking for me?" he asks, turning around to see Tyrion Lannister walking uncertainly toward the railing, his eyes unnatural and eerie in the dark. His silhouette is small against the bright lights from inside, the top of his head reaching only to the middle of the doorway, and Petyr is reminded abruptly of the fact that he's not the only person out of place here.

Tyrion shrugs, pulling a carton of cigarettes from his jacket and shaking one out. "I was just looking for somewhere to be alone, but I should have guessed you would have already found it. Are you avoiding people too?" He fumbles with his lighter, the small flicker of orange violent against the black sky.

"I would never avoid my friends," he smiles, but he can feel that the expression is cold on his face.

"Not even Stannis?" Tyrion laughs at his own joke. Petyr himself had only barely escaped Stannis' lecture about the importance of up-to-date equipment for surgery; even if the man is technically his boss, he can't be expected to get through all of that without screaming. "Not even Lysa Arryn? You know, her husband died. I hear she's on the market."

"On the hunt, maybe," Petyr mutters, taking another drag and blowing the smoke toward the empty space in front of him.

"I also hear redheads are your type, Baelish," he continues, sounding absentminded, but Petyr knows that his mind is clearer than it's ever been. Tyrion is a clever man, but clever doesn't mean intelligent. "Or maybe you're only interested in girls of a certain age."

Petyr doesn't respond, knowing silence is his best option.

"Don't worry," Tyrion amends, "no one cares about that anymore. These people, they can't even recall names after a while. But Catelyn Stark is looking for you. You should be grateful that I'm warning you about this, I just happened to be sitting at her table." He whistles. "Whatever you did that pissed the Spider off so much - I'd avoid that in the future."

"It's late," Petyr replies, turning more fully toward him. "Probably best to head home, before there's another incident."

"I know that you know her name," Tyrion says, suddenly cold. "You remember everything."

"Of course I remember Tysha. Or did you mean Shae?"

Tyrion stamps out his cigarette in the ashtray, leaving it there so the smoke curls and lingers. "Go fuck yourself, Littlefinger," he calls over his shoulder as he leaves. "I hope Catelyn Stark tears you to pieces."

For a minute, Petyr simply stays at the balcony, gazing at the lights in buildings going off and on and off again. His cigarette is down to its last breath, and he abandons it on the rail as he goes, hoping it leaves a mark.

He makes it all the way to the elevator before she catches up with him.

"Cat," he says quietly as she presses the button for the ground floor. "You're looking well. How is the family?"

"They're fine." She holds herself at her full height, swaying a little on her heels as the elevator jerks into motion. "Jon's going back to school, and Robb just started at a firm downtown. I thanked Varys for the recommendation. I'm surprised that my daughter hasn't told you all about it."

"Cat -" he begins, but she continues as if he had said nothing at all.

"Arya's grades are dropping, you know. It's that boy, Gendry, I think. He's a bad influence. Bran is always in his room, Rickon barely talks. My husband is still dead."

"You asked me to do the surgery," he reminds her softly, but she doesn't hear him.

"Sansa won't even look at me anymore. She spends all of her time at the hospital. Reading the books you tell her to read. Watching the movies you tell her to see. Running out before I can say goodbye in the morning. And now I hear that you're _encouraging_ her, that you're -" Her eyes flash as she turns to look at him, her voice low and stony. "She's a _child_."

"She's a volunteer," he says, louder than before, "and she's eighteen."

"We both know 'not illegal' and 'not unethical' are not the same thing," she hisses, following him out when the elevator doors slide open.

"You're right, Cat," he snaps, turning on his heel to face her head on. They're outside, and he feels a shiver run through him at the cold. "We _both_ know that."

"We're not done with this," she says, calling after him as he walks away.

"I am," he replies.

Before he's too far to see her, though, he looks back, unable to help himself, to where Cat still stands on the bottom step to the building. Her hair is piled beautifully above her head, her shoulders slumped inward, her legs seeming to weigh her down. She looks tragic like this, and he remembers a time when he would have done anything to make her smile, to soften the harsh lines of her figure and make her happy again.

Unbidden, his thoughts go to her daughter - he wonders if this is how she will look in twenty years, or if by the time she's Cat's age she'll be someone else entirely. When he looks at Cat, he can't manage to conjure up how she looked when she was younger; he can only picture Sansa.

He's about to say something ( _I won't change anything - I'm not as sorry that your husband died as I should be - I have loved you since I was a boy_ ), but he soon thinks better of it.

He keeps walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Sansa in this chapter :'( But I finally got back to Cat and the rest of the Stark family! It's very disconcerting to write from one perspective if you have in your head everything that's happening, I have no clue how professional writers do that so often.
> 
> Also, I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I find the Cat/Petyr dynamic so fascinating, because as much as he loves her and became obsessed with her, I think there's this deep-seated resentment there that he can't really admit, because he feels that she betrayed him in some way. Basically I think he loves her so much it's almost hate, and she loved him (like a brother) until she began to resent him for the fact that he couldn't let her go. And then every argument they have is just really an argument about that resentment and hatred-love-obsession. Maybe you guys have different theories!!! If anyone has any meta you can totally write about it because I LOVE reading that stuff.
> 
> Another fast update and a shorter chapter! This is probably just a way for me to avoid studying for finals, but whatever. I'm also going to try to finish this fic before the end of the summer, which is actually pretty doable at the rate I'm going, but we shall seeeeeeee ~~~


	8. Wondered If

_ He wondered if she wondered if he were watching her._

(RAYMOND CARVER)

 

 

 

 

The winter is always long and horrible in Chicago. Everything freezes and freezes, then everything melts, and still the cold remains for what seems like an eternity. By the middle of December he's sick to death of the snow, the ice, the layers that he has to pile on before leaving the house.

For all of his complaining, Sansa is even worse.

"It's awful," she exclaims, gesturing wildly despite the fact that she's the one driving. "Everything is black and grey and ugly, and I just want it to be summer again. And the traffic is terrible."

She isn't wrong. They're trapped in a long line of cars, and it's begun to snow again, the heavy flakes obscuring the windshield in thick clumps before the wipers clean them away. He was glad before that he had finished work early, but now he's longing for the times that he leaves at midnight.

"Here," he says suddenly, an idea entering his head, "you see that exit up there?"

Sansa cranes her neck, peering underneath the roof of the car so that she can see the green sign. "Yeah?"

"When you get to it in - I don't know - two minutes, you're going to take it, and we'll wait wherever we happen to be until the traffic clears up."

She raises her eyebrow, skeptical. "Okay," she says slowly, "I'm trusting you."

Petyr laughs, watching the motion of her wrist as she turns the wheel so the car begins to lead into the exit ramp. "I wouldn't. I could be leading you into a trap."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that," she replies, smiling slightly. "I'm still the one driving."

 

* * *

  

It isn't their first time eating together, but it's the first time in a restaurant, in a place with waiters and men wearing ties and women wearing jewels. When they walk in Sansa is suddenly self-conscious, tugging at the hem of her dress and shifting nervously on her feet.

"You look fine," he murmurs, leaning in close so that she tilts her shoulder up just barely, a smile playing quickly across her features as she tries not to laugh. "Just act like you belong here, and they'll think you do."

At his words she straightens up, lifting her chin as she must have seen someone wealthy do once in a film, her blue eyes going harder and colder in an imitation of that iciness that can come only with money. She looks, for a moment, like Cersei, and he wonders how much she must have learned, at the hands of a family like the Lannisters. More than she should have, he supposes.

By the time the waiter comes by to seat them Sansa has grown into the role, walking through the rows of tables as if she owns the place. Eyes follow her as she goes, men old enough to be her grandfather looking up from their meals to watch her pass.

With her ivory skin, her bright red hair curling softly against the back of her neck, he isn't surprised that they're captivated. If he were one of those men sitting at another table, only able to see her from a distance - even just the sight of her is enough to drive a man to drink. Even just the lift of her heels, the barest glance, the flicker of a smile, the catch of her breath before she speaks: one could go mad from it.

"Well done," he says, his hand touching briefly at the small of her back as he passes her to sit down. "They'll spend the rest of the evening treating you like royalty."

"What will they treat you like?" she asks, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips as she takes the chair at the side of the table closest to his.

He smirks, letting his eyes linger for a moment on her mouth before he replies, "Like a man who's going to pay them well."

"Is that what it takes to get people to be polite at places like this," she says absentmindedly, opening her menu, "lots and lots money?"

"I've been on both sides of that particular fence," Petyr says, and she looks up suddenly, her brow furrowed in confusion. "At a certain point of wealth people stop caring about things like social standing - it's the newly rich you have to worry about. You've seen it before, Sansa, you just didn't know what you were looking at. It's the difference between your father's family and people like the Lannisters. It matters more because they can still remember what it's like to not have it at all."

"Like _The Great Gatsby_ ," Sansa exclaims.

"Yes, that's the gist of it," he agrees, laughing. "I was going to order the Merlot, should I get a bottle?"

"Dr. Baelish, I can't drink."

He smiles. "I doubt that you would let that stop you."

Sansa blushes almost immediately, ducking her head so that he can't see her expression. He wishes, unreasonably, that she would allow him to. "You said earlier," she says, changing the subject, "you had been on both sides of the fence, but I thought you and my mom grew up together."

"Well, we did, in a sense. We grew up in the same home from the time I was about eight. That doesn't mean we had the same childhood." At her blank stare, he continues as if on command, without any certainty as to why he's explaining this, why he's telling her this. "I'm from Poland, you know. My father sent me here when I was a boy. For a better life. Where I'm from, a place called the Fingers - things weren't so nice then as they are now. And the Tullys took me in - your mother's father knew my father - but everyone knew. You can't really hide any of that, not when you've got an accent, not when you look so different. I wasn't their son, they didn't owe me anything, and they were good to me, they gave me more than they owed. But I couldn't have expected them to pay for me forever. I worked for most of what I have."

"They didn't pay to send you to college or anything? To medical school?" Her voice is small, like he's breaking her heart, and he doesn't want her to pity him, not her.

"I wasn't theirs," he replies. "I was my own. It made me who I am."

"It shouldn't have," she insists. "You were a child. If they could have treated you like their own then they should have."

He can't remember how their conversation reached this point, he can't even remember how it began. "If they had offered me money, I wouldn't have taken it. I wouldn't have taken their charity."

"It wouldn't have been charity," she counters, her eyes flashing, and for a moment she looks so much like her mother it _hurts_. But she isn't her mother; it's just their faces. She leans forward, resting her elbow on the table, her eyes clear and intent on him, and he wants nothing more than to lean toward her in return, press his mouth against her mouth, swallow her whole.

"It would have been love," she says.

 

* * *

 

 

The car is quiet on the way back. It's late, there are only a few people still out, and Petyr allows his eyes to wander from the road over to Sansa as he drives. She leans her head against her window, fogging up the glass and tracing shapes before it fades away. Her initials, a heart, a smiley face.

He should remember how young she is.

"I'm sorry," she says, breaking the silence. "About earlier. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I know you don't like talking about when you were a kid."

"Don't apologize," he laughs. "I wouldn't." He looks at her more fully, and in the dark she looks so different, so new. He wants to remember this. "You're a very kind girl, you know that? One day, someone's going to take advantage of that."

She gives a half-shrug, her voice wavering almost imperceptibly as she mutters, "Who says they haven't?" She tilts her head back, exposing her throat, the line of her neck, and she breathes in almost like a gasp as she says, "Thank you for dinner, Petyr."

It's a miracle he doesn't crash the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think based on my description of the winter you guys might have guessed that I'm from Chicago, so this is just a confirmation of that fact. Also, there is very clearly not a place in Poland called the Fingers, but I am suspending my disbelief and all of you should too >>>
> 
> This chapter is so fluffy but I'm not even sorry, like seriously. I personally believe that every fic deserves a self-indulgent conversation-based scene. I love writing dialogue, but I also hate it because I get all into trying to find new ways to say "say."
> 
> Finally, thank you to all you guys for your support!!! I never expected this to get like any views and I'm just so excited that people seem to like it. :))))))


	9. One of These Birds

_ A man had two birds in his head—not in his throat, not in his _  
_ chest—and the birds would sing all day never stopping. The man _  
_ thought to himself,  _ One of these birds is not my bird. _ The birds _  
_ agreed. _

(RICHARD SIKEN)

 

 

 

 

He gets New Year's Eve off, even though he didn't ask for it. It's easier, sometimes, just working the holidays. Since his father died, there's no one he needs to go see, and the hospital pays more to the people who work when no one else wants to. Nothing slows down when you think it should, least of all death.

He can remember the first New Year's he spent away from the Tullys, his sophomore year of college. He went to a party and spent the whole night drinking, stealing food from the apartment of a person he couldn't remember the name of, selling pills and coke to private school boys and too-beautiful girls who would grow up and live off of their parents' fortune, then inherit their jobs like they had a right to do so. He watched them and told himself he would eclipse all of them, every single one, and then at the end of everything he threw up the contents of his stomach in a perfect, white bathroom.

Nights like this he thinks he might miss it, when his anger was enough to feed his ambition. He can't remember the last time he cared so much about anything, even if what he loved and wanted and craved was his own spite.

Around Sansa he finds himself trying to remember what it's like, being that age. Thinking the entire world would open up to him if only he could find the right crack in the foundation, the right crevice that he could fit his hands into, pull up the roots of the world and slip underneath, become part of it so that everyone would think that he belonged there, that he deserved it because he _tried_ \- because he made his hands bloody from the effort. And thinking that his money, his smoothed out accent, his new name would be enough to grant him that respect.

He can barely stand to think of it.

He leaves the television on in his living room as he eats, as he reads, as he paces the length of the hallway to his room, back and forth, again and again. The channel it's set to plays the same movie over and over, and every hour he hears the same music cue, the same words uttered. He should turn it off, but for some inexplicable reason he can't bring himself to lift the remote and press the power button.

As the night wears on, he becomes more and more attached to it, even as he becomes more and more annoyed by it, and he thinks, absurdly, that something bad might happen if he were to turn it off, that he would suddenly be all alone in the universe without the sound to break the silence.

By one in the morning he has become so accustomed to it that he almost misses the phone ringing.

He doesn't even need to check the screen to know who it is.

"Dr. Baelish," she nearly shrieks into the phone when he answers, and he can hear her speaking to someone before she continues, "Dr. Baelish, I need a ride, okay? Okay? My mom's gonna be so mad at me."

"Sansa," he says, then raises his voice so that she can hear him over the music, "where are you?"

"I said I wouldn't go to any big parties, okay? I need a ride, and you've got a car, right?" Her voice suddenly drops off, replaced with a rustling noise, and he can practically see her confirming to someone else that he does, in fact, have a car. "Will you come get me?"

Petyr leans down and turns off the TV as he passes it. "Where are you?" He takes down the address that she rattles off, unsure of how he should feel that she decided to call him tonight, then pushing those thoughts out of his mind when he mutters into the phone, "I'll be right there."

"Thank you, thank you, you're a life saver." Her voice is considerably calmer, but there is still the thump of music, the screams of the party, and, quieter, gentler, Sansa's breath in the receiver, until suddenly all of the sound ends, and he is the only one still on the line.

 

* * *

 

 **Fri, Jan 1,** 1:48 PM

_Where are you?_

[1:48 PM]

.

_In the lobby_

[1:48 PM]

 

_I see you! I'm waving_

[1:49 PM]

 

* * *

  

For all that she couldn't stop talking in his car, Sansa grows quiet when they pull up to his house.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asks, turning to look at him with her hand poised over the handle of the door. Already she sounds better than before, her voice and hands steadier. He wonders how accustomed she is to drinking like this, if she was forced to learn how to handle her liquor from her time with the Lannisters. He wouldn't be surprised. "I already called my mom and told her I was staying at Marg's."

"I don't mind," he says, willing his voice not to waver.

She smiles, opening the door and stepping uncertainly out of the car. In the yellow light of the streetlamp, the color of her hair, her red dress, makes her seem like she's burning. He can remember the first time he saw her, with her bright hair, her pale eyes - compared to the rest of her siblings, with their darker features and harsher angles, she was so obvious and distinct, so noticeable.

If it's even possible, she gets even quieter when he opens the door to his house and drops the keys in the silver bowl on the mantle. She's cautious when she leads the way to venture further side, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor as she moves. All of the lights are off, the only illumination coming from the opened blinds, the trees casting odd shadows that jump and shimmer with every change of the wind.

"I'll get you something to sleep in," he says, and Sansa turns quickly around to look at him across the room, seeming as if she had forgotten he was there at all.

"Thank you," she manages, letting the purse that was slipping off of her shoulder to fall to the ground, its contents clattering together. "I'm sorry for - intruding."

Petyr smirks at the tremor that runs through her voice, the shake in her fingers as she presses them together, fiddling with the Claddagh ring on her right hand. "Are you nervous, Sansa?"

Something in his tone seems to spark something in her, and she tilts her head so carefully, her eyes narrowing, like she's sizing him up. Like she could eat him alive. "I'm not nervous," she replies, almost flippant as she sits on the couch, making herself at home. When she speaks again her voice is stronger than before. "Why? Is there something you know that I don't, Dr. Baelish?"

"Of course not, sweetling," he says, smiling wider at her, at the challenge clear in her eyes. "And please, call me Petyr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are over! Yeah buddy :))))))
> 
> We're finally getting into the plot here, which is exciting. I know it's been pretty unclear from all the set up I've been attempting where exactly I'm going with this, and the next few chapters are going to be getting into everything more so woah, crazy, I have a plan? Who even knows.
> 
> On a completely unrelated note: I recently rewatched the 2005 _Pride & Prejudice_ and I screeched through most of it and the moral of the story is, everyone go watch it. I mean, the BBC version's truer to the book and I personally like it more, but 2005 is smolder-y and wondrous.


	10. Self-Immolation

_ What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster? _

(DONNA TARTT)

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn't have anything for her to wear. He can't remember the last time he had a woman in his house, can't remember the last time he had anyone over to his house - except that isn't quite true, is it, because he knows it was five years ago the last time Cat visited him and Sansa was just thirteen then, Jesus Christ. He shouldn't be so anxious. He can't figure out why she seems able to throw him off so easily, like it's nothing to her to do so.

The hotel where the party had been was lavish, full of people her own age who would've put her up for the night, and yet she chose to call him. He doesn't know all of the circumstances, of course, so he might as well take that with a grain of salt: she might not have known anyone there well enough to ask for a favor, her other friends might have been too far away to ask, he might have been her last resort. That last one is the most likely, he decides, so he should stop analyzing.

A lesser man would be worried about this, having a young woman here so late, but he shouldn't be. He's not one to worry.  _Here's your midlife crisis,_ Varys, that son of a bitch, had laughed once last month, _right on schedule_.

Petyr manages to scrounge up sweatpants and one of his undershirts, and now is not the time to think of the fact that she's going to be sleeping in his clothes, so he doesn't think of it at all. He lays what he has out on the bed, the white material of the shirt stark against the maroon comforter, and he's pulling sheets out of the closet for the couch in the living room when she appears in the door.

She's tall, even after abandoning her high heels, even when she leans heavily on one leg, her toes curling underneath her feet. She grants him a fleeting smile as she picks at the chipping paint of the doorframe. He needs to get that touched up, he thinks absently.

"Thank you again, for doing this," she says, glancing down at the blankets loaded in his arms as he stops a few feet from her. "I called, like, everyone, but they all had their own things going on."

"I figured as much," he mutters, smiling quickly in response. "It's really no trouble."

For a second she seems not to hear him, only furrowing her brow briefly as she looks in his eyes, like she's searching for something. After a moment, she says, "So you're going to the wedding?"

"What?"

Sansa inclines her head in the direction of the kitchen, a lock of hair falling over her ear before she flicks it back into place. "Margaery and Joffrey's wedding. In two weeks. You still have your RSVP on the counter."

"Yes, I'm going. It's one social obligation I can't avoid, unfortunately." Petyr shifts closer to her, taking a half-step foward. "You know the bride, wouldn't you be going too?"

She shrugs. "Marg understands why I'm not."

"The Tyrells are a good family, you know. Her grandmother always tells me Margaery is a sharp one." He tilts his head, considering her. "She warns you when Joffrey's at the hospital, doesn't she?" Nothing changes in Sansa's face, not even a glimmer of surprise alighting her eyes. "Is that why you became friends with her after the boy ended things?"

"No," she replies, leaning back against the doorframe, as if she is realizing only now how close he has gotten.

"It just _happened_ that way then? Like when you became friends with me?"

"I make friends with people I like," she says lightly, almost teasingly. "Are you accusing me of having some ulterior motive?"

"You're smart, Sansa," he smirks, stepping closer to her until he can see her expression, even in the dark, "but you're not a very good liar." That's the problem with intelligence, of course. People always put too much stock in it. In time, she'll come to learn that.

Sansa juts her chin up, defiant. "Maybe that's true," she murmurs, narrowing her eyes momentarily as she runs them over him, like she is looking for some fatal flaw, a break in the armor. "I haven't had much practice." _Not like you,_ she doesn't say. Doesn't need to.

"Early days, though, don't you think?"

"I suppose I'll learn," she continues, "as long as I associate with the right people. Or would it be the wrong people?"

"Oh, I'd say a little bit of both."

"Then it's a good thing you're here, Dr. Baelish." She smiles slightly, self-deprecating. "You can help me figure out who I should be talking to."

"Petyr," he reminds her. He must have forgotten what he was doing because the blankets that were in his arms are on the ground between them, his hands are on her waist, his gaze has drifted to her mouth. He can't recall how that happened. It's disconcerting, but not unpleasant.

One hand slides up to hold her face, his thumb tracing her jaw, his fingers slipping into her hair; the other stays at her side, bunching the material of her dress in his fist. He hasn't even really touched her yet. She could still leave, if she wanted to, could still make her excuses and say goodnight and leave him there, floundering, but she isn't moving. And he isn't moving.

She clears her throat, or tries to, drawing his attention back to her eyes. In the dark, her pupils are large, swallowing the blue of her irises. Her voice is little more than a whisper when she amends, asks him, maybe, "Petyr?"

He nods, once, _yes_ , and then he's leaning forward, he's pressing her against the doorframe, he's kissing her.

When he was young, Cat and Lysa used to rope him into playing spin-the-bottle at their parties, and he would get passed between them, between other girls, pecking them on the cheek, the lips, the neck. As he got older, once the games lost their shine, he realized how he disliked the act of kissing - disliked the way a woman would bite her nails into his shoulder, disliked the noises she would make, disliked how he had to close his eyes, disliked how he had to trust that she would do the same.

Still, here he is, and it's - it's something different.

For a moment, she doesn't move an inch, her lips frozen underneath his, one of her arms trapped against his chest, the other held stiff against her side. He opens his mouth, just barely, trying to coax her into reciprocating, into shoving him away, _anything_. After what seems like an eternity, he can feel her wrap her hand around his tie, the tug of it unmistakeable, while the fingers of her right hand pull through his hair, the cold metal of her ring pressing against his skin.

Then suddenly Sansa is writhing in his arms, clutching at the back of his neck, her legs shivering as he drags her dress slowly, slowly up. Her lips part in response to him, breath stuttering and ragged like he knows his must be too and all of her, all of her is _red_ \- the dress he has in his fingers, the hair beginning to knot in his hand, her mouth hot and open and wanting as it moves with his. His eyes are closed, but he can practically feel the color pulsing off of her like a heart: raw, beating, bleeding on the table.

But then, just as abruptly as it started, it's over. Petyr steps back as she pushes him gently away, dropping his arms down. He inhales once, a shuddering breath that rattles in his throat. Across from him, still pressed up against the frame that he needs to have repainted, Sansa puts three fingers up to her lips. Her ring catches the light from the hall, the heart that points away from her palm glinting silver.

"I left some clothes for you on the bed," he forces out finally, thanking whatever God there is that his voice doesn't shake. "I'll take the couch."

He bends down, hating that he has to as he does, to retrieve the sheets that he dropped. When he straightens back up, she hasn't moved, save her eyes, wide and fixed on him.

"Goodnight," he says quickly, leaving her to go to sleep in privacy. He shouldn't have done that, he decides as he walks, at least not in that way. He shouldn't have allowed himself to get so caught up in the moment.

It's only after he's gone a few feet down the hall to the living room that he hears her echo the sentiment to the empty space where he was just a moment ago, but he's too far away to turn back to see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS!!! ARE HAPPENING!!! Whew. I'm always so nervous about posting things that have kissing because I spend so much time with those scenes that I can't tell if they're any good or not. So please be gentle.
> 
> Also, I really love the idea of Irish-Catholic Stark and Tully families, and if any of you know Irish people, you probably know all about Claddagh rings. However, for those of you who don't, [here's a link](http://www.claddaghring.com/How-to-wear-claddagh-rings-a/122.htm) explaining some of the tradition behind it. Essentially, when worn on the right hand, as Sansa would, the heart on the ring faces away from the body to indicate that the wearer is single. When it faces toward the body, it indicates a relationship.
> 
> On another tangentially-related note, I know we're all supposed to be hating Natalia Kills right now, but I don't really care and "Controversy" is like a perfect modern Sansa/Alayne Stone song, don't even fight me on this. Everyone go listen to it, right now. [Here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnKTpw6urfI)


	11. All My Foolish Blood

_ I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. _

(JAMES JOYCE)

 

 

 

 

For a second after he wakes up, Petyr doesn't know where he is. It takes a moment for him to realize he's in his own house; it takes an even more agonizing moment for him to remember why he's sleeping on the couch. He scrambles for his phone, nearly knocking it off of the coffee table in the process, but he rights himself and at last manages to check the screen.

_8:07_. Of course he overslept. He has three minutes, tops, because then he has to make a twenty minute drive, and there's no way in hell he's going into work late, not on New Year's Day. He doesn't think he can bear the smug faces he'll see if he strolls in even so much as a minute behind time, not even with excuses of traffic or the car not starting. He will not pretend to laugh as Jaime Lannister makes the joke he makes every year that someone is late on this holiday, he will not fucking do that, because for starters the joke isn't even funny, it's just an obvious line about getting lucky or overdoing the partying last night, and doctors should be more scrupulous about the things they laugh at because really - and he's getting off track.

He needs to leave, now.

The problem with accomplishing that, of course, is what to do about the girl in his room.

Outside of his own bedroom door, he hesitates, the hand poised to knock falling away as he considers that maybe, he doesn't have to announce his intentions. She most likely hasn't woken yet, given the early hour and the lack of noise coming from the other side of the door. He could simply enter, brush his teeth, take the clothes he needs, and leave her some money for a cab on his way out. There's nothing that indicates he would wake her up. In fact, he can remember the first real conversation that he had with her was after he had to shake her awake at the hospital.

He opens the door as quietly as possible, letting out a sigh of relief as he realizes that he was right, and she is still sleeping. He pulls out the necessary articles of clothing from the open closet door and shuts himself in the bathroom to change.

As he settles into his morning routine, the regular ablutions cut down and completed much, much faster than usual, Petyr considers what his mind had stumbled over just moments before, about the first time he really spoke to Sansa.

It was late, visiting hours almost over, and he had been surprised to see someone in Ned Stark's room who wasn't the man himself. It was the night before the surgery, Ned's second one so far. Petyr already knew was going to end poorly, to say the very least. The cancer had already metastasized beyond his stomach, and despite Cat's insistence, her denial, everyone knew it was a last-ditch effort with little chance for success.

Still, for all Petyr disliked the man, Ned handled dying very well.

Seeing the red hair of the person bent over on the cot, the way her pale ankles rolled underneath her legs in her high-heeled shoes, Petyr had assumed the visitor was Cat, but on entering the room he realized quickly that it wasn't the case. Ned was sleeping on the cot, his glasses sliding off the end of his nose, an open book spread out over his chest. Sansa was resting her head against his arm, her face obscured by her hair, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath she took. The book was _Dubliners_ , and Petyr realized, suddenly, that he must have been reading it to her.

_She's so young,_ he remembers thinking almost detachedly. _She's young, and her father is going to die tomorrow._

Petyr nudged her shoulder as gently as possible, nudged it a second and third time, and finally she woke, disoriented, blinking uncertainly at him.

"Dr. Baelish?" Her voice was heavy with sleep, her movements lethargic as she slowly entered back into reality. She straightened up, arching her back and stretching her fists into the air like a cat. He couldn't help but watch her, the line of her neck as she threw her hair back, the motion of her wrist as she lifted her hair over her shoulder, the lift of her shirt revealing the smooth skin of her stomach. He should've felt bad about that, but he didn't.

"Visiting hours are over," he said shortly. "You can see him tomorrow, before the surgery."

Sansa blinked. "Okay," she murmured, tilting her shoulders in toward her chest.

"Do you have a way to get home?" This time he tried to infuse the sentence with more warmth, made it gentler. He smiled at her, and she tried to smile back.

"I drove here. Dad said we'd finish it." She nodded toward the book, still splayed out over her father's hands. "You know - you know, he read me every Harry Potter book. Even the new ones, even when I was too old for it. He read me every single one." For a horrible moment, her face crumpled, like she might begin to cry.

"What story are you on?" Petyr asked, desperate, for some reason, to keep that from happening.

"The Dead," she replied, her voice cracking on the second word, but her eyes were dry. They were so blue, her eyes.

"That's the last one," he recalled. "You can stay, if you want, you can wake him up and he can finish it. I'll make sure no one bothers you."

"Thank you." She was sincere, this girl, in the way she said that. It had been so long since Petyr had seen that kind of thing. "You've all been so kind, here. Thank you, Dr. Baelish."

He turned to leave the room, feeling suddenly drained, when she spoke again, her voice making him halt as soon as he heard it.

"He's going to die, isn't he?" He turned back, unsure of how to phrase it. Before he could, she continued. "Stop being a doctor, don't try to be nice. Just tell me what you think."

"I would be surprised if he lived through the surgery," Petyr said, putting it too bluntly, more than it needed to be, but he rationalized, _she asked him for the truth_. "If he lasts much longer than that, I'd give him a day, maybe two."

"It's good," he added, in some vague and useless attempt to soften the blow, "that you're here to see him."

Sansa nodded, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she blinked rapidly.

"Okay," she said, "okay."

Standing now over his own bed, Petyr can almost hear her voice, he can see her trying so hard to smile at him, he can see her through the window as she woke her father up, he can see her listening to her father as he read her James Joyce. In sleep, she's relaxed, her hair tangled on the white pillowcase, her arms splayed out over the comforter, and there is no tension in her face, no pretense. He should let her sleep.

He pulls forty dollars from his wallet, and, realizing at the last moment what the money might look like without any explanation, he pulls a random book from the nightstand, tearing out one of the title pages to write on. It's only a moment before he realizes that the book he chose is _Dubliners_ , but there's nothing to be done about that now. He scribbles out the message as neatly as possible, hoping his handwriting doesn't conform to the stereotype of a doctor but knowing that it still does:

 

_Had to go to work. Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen. Here's money for a cab._

_\- Petyr_

 

He checks his phone again before he moves any further, almost compulsive in the way he looks at the time. _8:12_. That's still okay. He can still make it.

At the door to his room, Petyr spares her one last glance, one last look - her red hair, the purple circles under her eyes, the way she breathes deep and even. He can't think of last night, not now; he can save that for another time.

He leaves, shutting the door behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, I totally meant to write an obligatory awkward morning after scene, but somehow this came out of my hands (head?). I'm actually kind of glad that it did, too, because I enjoy the change.
> 
> Also, let's all thank God and also Jesus for the image of Petyr Baelish being Very Tardy for work, because that is probs my favorite thing that I have ever thought of. Seriously, for a guy who's all about appearances, you have to picture what it must be like for him (a modern him) to fall prey to the simplest of human errors. I mean, not the pawns in his vast, complex endgame plan not bending to his will, but dumber things, like super slow internet during a work presentation or, in this case, missing your alarm by a half hour. I realized recently that Petyr's entire character arc pretty much just equates to _~all I wanna do is *gunshot noise* *gunshot noise* *gunshot noise* *gunshot noise* and-a *cash register noise* and take your money~_ and just, what does he do when the cash register jams? What does he do when one of his henchmen misplaced the gun? I don't think it's the human pawns that would bring him down, I think it's the day-to-day misfortunes that are completely impossible to avoid.


	12. Sheer Vertigo

_ He doesn't know which is worse, a past he can't regain or a present that will destroy him if he looks at it too closely. Then there's the future. Sheer vertigo. _

(MARGARET ATWOOD)

 

 

 

 

He knows something is off as soon as he walks into his house. The lights are too bright when he turns them on, make his head ache and his eyes hurt, and he's just finished a double shift because Lannister broke his hand at some New Year's party and, of course, left Petyr in the lurch. Even from home, Jaime is incredibly good at ruining things for other people and himself; he should just pray this doesn't end up wrecking his career. Petyr shuts off the lights again, figuring he'll just go over what's different in the morning, or the afternoon, depending on when he wakes up.

If anyone robbed his house, it's not as if that's such a big deal. He doesn't even keep everything valuable he owns here, and it's not as if he can't replace everything anyway. Something tugs at the back of his mind, reminding him that the reason everything feels different is because he allowed someone unlimited access to his living space, but he ignores this. He's too tired to think about anything deeper than if it would be better or worse to pass out with his shoes on.

He decides on worse, and within minutes of taking them off, he's asleep.

 

* * *

  

Sometimes, he dreams in Polish. There's no reason for him to speak it anymore, since his father died, but he can still shift between languages easy as anything. It helps sometimes at the hospital, cuts out the problems in translation with certain patients, but he doesn't advertise it otherwise.

He can remember the first day he arrived in Chicago, how he had stayed with an elderly aunt in Pulaski Park for a day as the Tullys got everything ready for him. He can remember seeing all the buildings downtown for the first time, the way the sunlight had shined off of the glass, how he couldn't even see the tops of them. It was unlike anything he had ever seen in his life. His whole existence before that had been spent in that little town by the water, in that dilapidated little house, and here he was, in America, in a city so big he could hardly believe there was an end to it. But there was an end to it, of course.

He can still hear his grandfather's last piece of advice to him before he left: _nigdy nie wierz Anglikowi._ Never trust an Englishman.

" _To Irlandki,_ " his father had scolded.

His grandfather had only shrugged. " _Piotr,_ " he said," _nigdy nie wierz Irlandczykom._ "

He doesn't know why he told Sansa about where he was born. It was something he hadn't mentioned in years, much less thought about. But there was something about her that made him say things he shouldn't say, made him confess things as if he were drunk even when he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol.

In his dream, Sansa calls him by his real name. She doesn't snarl it the way Edmure had, the way Cat did, once, at school. She had apologized afterwards, but he could still remember her face as she had told him to leave her alone in front of her friends. The foreign fucking Polack. Poor and little and from the Fingers. And then the name they snarled was another, _Littlefinger_ , said so often he adopted it as his own by the end of third grade, and it remained with him until college. When he came back to Chicago from Connecticut, it appeared again, like a small, determined ghost he couldn't manage to shake.

When he wakes up, he can't remember anything about his dream but her - Sansa, all tangled and red and running and calling his real name. When he turns his head, the first thing he sees is the note he left for her. It's in the same place as before, but at the bottom of the page is a cursive scrawl: the words  _thank you_.

After his coffee, he begins to realize, slowly, what she had moved around to make his house feel so changed. In the sink, he can see an empty glass he didn't use, a plate still with crumbs on it. In the pantry, the toaster is in the wrong place. Not so surprising, though. He told her she could help herself to any of his food.

It's only later in the afternoon that he realizes the impact of her stay has extended beyond his kitchen. When looking on his shelves in the living room, he can see books with the dust in front of them disturbed - _The Brothers Karamazov, Invitation to a Beheading,_ a copy of  _House of Day, House of Night_  in the original language - and in the cabinets below, as he checks them, he can see that she replaced some of his CDs in the wrong order. She touched none of the classical discs he leaves visible for the benefit of any guests, only what he bought back in college (and, if he's being honest, those rare times that he is, buys now) - Radiohead, Nirvana, the one Lou Reed album worth owning.

His first thought is that she needs to be more careful in her subterfuge. His second thought is that, if she's at all familiar with what she looked at, then she has managed to discern a lot more about him in less than a day, probably in less than an hour, than most people have managed in years of knowing him.

Petyr had expected she would snoop, would have actually found it odd if she didn't - Sansa is curious and, considering what they did the other night, interested in knowing more about him. Yet now that he knows she actually has looked around and seen what he reads, what he watches, what he listens to, it's disconcerting.

He thought he was giving her access to his house. Why didn't he realize he was giving her access to himself?

And why doesn't that bother him more?

 

* * *

 

  **Sun, Jan 3,** 7:17 PM

 

_I'm not going to be at the hospital for a few days. Marg is flying us to Vegas for her bachelorette party!_

[7:17 PM]

 

_ (dancer emoji) (victory hand emoji) (money with wings emoji) _

[7:17 PM]

.

_Thanks for letting me know. Have fun._

[10:43 PM]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter, but that's the way it goes. (Psst, Petyr Baelish is a pretentious 90s alt-rock hipster pass it on.)
> 
> So yeah, I have this headcanon about Petyr and Sansa that they both have extremely keen eyes and notice things that normal people (like me - I suck at noticing anything that's not immediately relevant to me) gloss over. Like, Petyr has a knack for Sherlock Holmes kinda observations, but Sansa rockets beyond him. If anyone's seen the show Lie to Me, the premise of it hinges on the concept that people have "microexpressions" that are very difficult to catch unless you're highly trained OR you have a natural gift for it. My theory is that Sansa already had a natural ability for it, which was only heightened by the abuse she suffered during her time in KL (idk if this is actually true, but the show states that children who have been abused can become really good at reading these microexpressions because it helps them to identify the signs of forthcoming abuse). As you can probably tell, this theory I have pretty significantly impacts how I read and write about interactions between them in the show and in fic.
> 
> On an unrelated yet no less important note: I need about a thousand Petyr/Sansa edits with the words, "she instagram herself like bad bitch alert/he instagram his watch like mad rich alert" WHERE ARE THEY WHY AREN'T THEY HERE NOW. Actually, I just need ten million Petyr Baelish edits with Kanye West lyrics because they are all so applicable. ACTUALLY, I need forty billion edits with Game of Thrones characters and Kanye lyrics because seriously, I mean. Seriously. The series could be called "kanyewesteros."
> 
> _#everybodyknowimamotherfuckingmonster #fuckyouandyourhamptonhouse #noonemanshouldhaveallthatpower #whatsfiftygrandtoamotherfuckerlikemecanyoupleaseremindme #hurryupwithmydamncroissants_


	13. Someone I Know

_ Sometimes I get so immersed in my own company, if I unexpectedly run into someone I know, it's a bit of a shock and takes me a while to adjust. _

(KAZUO ISHIGURO)

 

 

 

 

He shares an office block with Stannis, which is why he often finds himself wanting to commit murder in the middle of the workday. It isn't just that the man is the most boring person Petyr knows, which he is; it's also that because Baratheon is a pediatric specialist, it's not unusual for the hall to be filled with screaming toddlers, sullen preteens, and the siblings of whatever unfortunate soul is about to undergo surgery.

It's not that Petyr isn't reasonably sympathetic to why the man chose pediatric surgery when there were a thousand other less depressing areas to go into. He doesn't have a child, so he can't really understand what it's like to have something so awful happen to his daughter and be unable to do anything about it. He's seen little Shireen walking down the hall to her father, he knows that Stannis has to see his own shortcomings in her half-burned face every single day. Petyr's not a particularly moral person, but he isn't a monster.

So, fine, he's considering the murder route more seriously today (he already has the beginnings of a plan, he has _several_ things on one of the morticians, and it's not like he's lacking for weapons in a hospital) but it's only because, as a result of Stannis' office being right next door, Sansa Stark is sitting in the hall outside.

She's on the bench opposite of his door with a little girl, leaning in toward her with her long legs tucked up underneath herself as the child holds a picture book clumsily in her hands.

At the very least, she hasn't noticed him standing there yet. He doesn't need to have the first time he's seen her since New Year's to be in the company of a toddler, the whole thing is pathetic enough as it is without some oblivious three-year-old being there to bear witness.

He's just about to walk back into his office, close the door, and hide out until she leaves, when the child suddenly looks up directly at him and stares. Sansa responds quickly, her voice trailing off as she glances up to follow the girl's line of sight.

"'Maybe we should go back to digging straight down,' said Dave," she recites, looking back down as she finishes the sentence. He can see her flush as she reaches across herself, turning the page rather than waiting for the child to figure out what to do next. As she does, the little girl suddenly grabs ahold of Sansa's hand, pointing to the ring she's wearing.

The little girl looks up, sincere curiosity written all over her face. "Are you married?" she whispers, looking from Sansa to Petyr and back again.

Sansa laughs, a nervous giggle that's too high and forced, and she's just about to respond when Petyr hears himself speaking in her place.

"Your friend is a little too young to be married," he says, attempting a smile at the girl in question. He can't remember the last time he's willingly spoken to a child; every time he encounters Robin it seems closer to an exercise in withstanding torture. But this girl is better behaved than him, simply by sitting still and not throwing the book across the hall, and Petyr figures that maybe having her there isn't so bad, if it allows him to make a graceful exit without having to speak to Sansa.

"But she's a grownup," the child insists, her tone argumentative and indicating nothing but sound reason. She turns back to Sansa, determined in her infallible logic as she points out, "You're wearing grownup clothes."

Sansa smiles brightly, a natural reaction rather than the forced laugh from before. "I _am_ a grownup," she says, her voice low and confiding, "but I can't get married. Not yet."

"Why?"

Petyr starts to head off, deciding now is the best time to leave, when they're both distracted.

"Well, I haven't fallen in love yet. You have to love someone a lot to get married." Even as he walks quickly away, he can hear the sound of a door opening, Stannis' clinical monotone, and Sansa speaking to the child over the other conversation. "See, look at your mom and dad, hi! They love each other very much, and they got married."

It's only another moment for her to say goodbye, he can hear her voice pitched higher than usual as she greets "Dr. Baratheon," and then her steps are moving fast down the hall until she catches up with him.

"I had to take the bus today," Sansa says, nearly breathless when she reaches his side, but grinning. "Shireen was sick, and she felt so bad about missing her slot she called and begged me to fill in. Public transportation isn't nearly as bad as I've been led to believe. A lot slower than I thought, though."

She's rambling, her words moving fast and tripping out at a rate he'd have difficulty comprehending if he wasn't already used to it. When he was a child, Cat's family used to do the same thing after a fight or something else dramatic, simply picking up cheerfully where the relationship was last good and pretending like whatever happened never did.

In fact, he can't remember an instance in which any of the Tullys apologized to each other or to him, preferring instead an unspoken agreement not to discuss anything until the next fight, when it would all be dredged up again.

"Let me know the next time you're here, I'll give you a ride," Petyr replies, choosing to play along. At her quiet nod, her inability to think of anything else to continue the conversation, he decides not to let her suffer in the silence, as he had been planning to. "Are you going to work with kids when you're done with school?"

She shakes her head, shrugging. "I don't think I have the patience."

He lowers his eyebrows, looking quickly at her. "What were you thinking of majoring in then?"

"I don't know. I went in undecided. Maybe English?" She laughs, self-deprecating. "Just to make sure I'm totally unemployable."

Petyr makes some distracted sound of agreement, trying to figure out where he should be going. If he goes to lunch, as he had been planning, then he'll have to invite her, and he's not really up for hearing how she'll hesitate at spending an extended period of time alone with him. For all that she's trying to pretend that everything is normal, he knows he's made her nervous.

Christ, he really shouldn't have kissed her.

"How did you know you wanted to be a doctor?" she asks, pulling him out of his fugue with the sudden question.

He huffs out a short laugh, realizing a few seconds too late that it makes no sense in the context. "I don't think anyone's asked me that in years," he admits, pressing the button to the elevator.

"I'm asking now," she says simply.

"Well - how do I explain this? Okay, your sister goes to a private school, right?" At her confirmation, he nods, stepping with her into the elevator. "So if you were to ask every kid there on financial aid what their parents want them to be when they grow up, nine times out of ten, you know what they'll say? Not a lawyer, not a CEO, not an accountant -"

"A doctor," she finishes, looking sideways at him. "Was it really just to make your dad happy?"

"That was part of it." Petyr smirks. "The money was another part. It didn't hurt that it was something I was good at."

Sansa nods, considering. For someone coming from a family that must have always supported any career decision (her half-brother's going to be an _artist,_ for God's sake), she seems to understand the real answer more than most people. He tends to give the headlines when asked why he's a doctor, _he wants to help people, he wants to save lives,_ when the truth is always much more mundane than that, and much more selfish - he didn't want to be poor anymore.

"Look, I'm going to lunch, so -"

"Thank God, I'm starving," Sansa interrupts, swaying slightly as the elevator jerks to a halt. "I didn't eat breakfast this morning."

Petyr half-shrugs, pulling a tin can from his pocket. "Here, you want an Altoid?"

Sansa glances down at his hand, and, surprisingly, a laugh escapes her.

He furrows his brow. "What is it?"

"Nothing, it just makes sense now." At his blank stare, she elaborates, "You ta-" She hesitates, a blush coloring her cheeks as she catches her mistake. "Your breath always smells like mint."

He nods, hiding his smile as he turns in the direction of the cafeteria. "Good to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's back! Aw yeah. And anyone that's like, oh, a little kid would never say those things that's too convenient, counterpoint: every single sentence I wrote was something a child has _actually said to me._ Also, they were reading _Sam and Dave Dig a Hole,_ for anyone interested. #earlychildhoodeducation, motherfuckers.
> 
> So that last episode happened, so yeah. While my future of watching Game of Thrones is uncertain at this particular juncture (I will watch the next few episodes and make an executive decision), my future writing this is not. I am totally gonna finish it because I am not a quitter. Actually, I'll continue writing Petyr/Sansa (most likely entirely with alternate universes because, for me, au is the actual embodiment of the lyric *oh hot damn this is my jam*) as long as the pairing continues to interest me, which it will forever, or at least a very long time, because there's so many complexities to it and even the show cannot ruin that for me.
> 
> Sometimes I wonder if you guys are annoyed by all the rambling I do in these notes, but then again, I really don't care. I enjoy writing these! If you guys like reading this fic half as much as I like reading my own thoughts in here, then I've done my unpaid job very well.


	14. The Other Way Around

_ Guy don't need no sense to be a nice fella. Seems to me sometimes it jus' works the other way around. Take a real smart guy and he ain't hardly ever a nice fella. _

(JOHN STEINBECK)

 

 

 

 

The reception is awful.

The whole thing is gorgeous, of course, the decorations tasteful, the speeches short and not overly sentimental, the bride radiant, but it's all so fucking awful anyway that Petyr almost wishes there would be some distant relative there to ruin everything with a drunken speech or a fist-fight in the middle of lunch. Unfortunately, Olenna Tyrell was much too smart in her preparations for the event, and every single person at the reception is perfectly well-behaved, everyone seated in the exact right place, the drinks all limited, the waitstaff silent and moving around with deadly efficiency. She even managed the trick of sitting Lysa at a table across the hall from the bride and groom without offending the woman, who had insisted that her husband was like a second father to Joffrey.

Luckily, that puts her a good distance away from Petyr as well, and he spends most of the reception avoiding a conversation with her.

The ceremony had been held that morning, in a cathedral, in a Catholic church in the city that he can remember from going to Easter mass there a few times as a child. It was nice, open, spacious, and even when the priest spoke his voice barely rose so that Petyr, who was sitting in one of the pews far from the alter, could only just hear him.

It's ridiculous, that they should have tried to turn the occasion into something holy. He doesn't even think the Tyrells are practicing anymore, and the Lannister-Baratheons are as areligious as they come.

"Appearances," Tyrion tells him, leaning back in his chair with a huff. "It's unfashionable to get married in city hall."

"I thought it was a lovely ceremony," Petyr says idly, twisting his glass in place on the white tablecloth. Across the ballroom, on the dance floor, he can see Margaery dancing with her new husband, listening patiently as he whispers something into her ear. A slight twitch mars her expression for only a second before she rights herself with a false smile, so cheerful and perfect that anyone not paying close attention might mistake it for genuine. "For a beautiful couple."

Tyrion only laughs. "Fuck, Baelish, you don't have to keep up your whole -" He waves an arm over Petyr, unable to clarify exactly what he means with words. "No one else is here."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's what all of this is," the other man continues, lifting his glass of wine (his second and his last - Petyr is sure Olenna will have him cut off after this), "all of it is fucking appearances. You know, I overheard the lovely bride and her grandmother talking about how strict the infidelity clause is in her pre-nup. Christ, it's sickening. Money and mirrors and - and money."

"It's easy enough for you to say so," Petyr comments, careful to keep his voice neutral. "You've never been without it."

"Well, that's assuming dear old dad doesn't cut me out of the will," Tyrion mutters into his glass, taking a long swig from it and grimacing as he notices that it's empty. "And you know what they say about assuming."

Petyr shrugs, unsympathetic. "I'm sure you'll live."

"Just as long as he isn't."

"Tyrion," a voice behind them calls, the cold, clipped tone making the word seem like a curse rather than a name. Cersei steps gracefully in front of them, leaning forward slightly so that she looms over her younger brother, her smile thin on her face. "Don't you think you should greet our other guests? Instead of just lurking in the corner all night like you did at my wedding?"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion says, laughing darkly. "That sham of a fucking -"

"Cersei," Petyr cuts him off, standing as he holds out his hand, "may I have the next dance?"

For a moment, she only glowers at her brother, but suddenly her eyes smooth out, her grin becoming serene, and she bends her head in a nod as she takes Petyr's hand and leads him to the floor. For all that Cersei has gotten crueler over the years, more bitter, more likely to forget what she has been taught, she can still play the wonderful little actress her father raised her to be and her husband molded her into.

As they dance, Petyr allows her to lead, amused at the way she seems to relish controlling their movements, as small and circular as they are. For a few minutes, he makes small talk with her, praising every choice she took part in during the planning.

"A lovely ceremony," Petyr says during a lull in the conversation, repeating his sentiment from earlier. "People will be talking about this wedding for years. I think I saw Myrcella actually taking notes."

"It was rather small, though." She doesn't seem to take notice of any of the couple hundred people milling around the room, talking, drinking, laughing. "Fewer guests than my dear daughter-in-law would have liked," Cersei says pointedly, tossing her curled, blonde hair back over her bare shoulder. "Catelyn Stark didn't even send a gift, the stubborn bitch." Her lip curls as she watches Petyr from the corner of her eye, hoping to see a reaction.

He doesn't reply, believing a lack of response is the best possible option, so she continues, "Her daughter is much more polite, I must say. She sent a wonderful little present and a note apologizing about missing today. Some unavoidable conflict, she said, but I have a feeling it's because she's still in love with Joffrey, the poor dear. She and I became quite close when they were dating; I was like a mother to her. Robert was just saying the other day -"

"How is your husband?" Petyr interrupts, turning her suddenly in another direction, taking the lead. "I was hoping to speak with him, actually, but he seems to have vanished."

"Robert was feeling a little ill," Cersei responds coolly. "He went outside to get some fresh air."

"Well, I hope he feels better soon. With such a beautiful wife, how could he possibly leave her with an inferior partner?" Cersei shrugs, smirking at his compliment and self-directed insult, almost certainly knowing them to be empty, but he continues, "Perhaps your brother might keep you company. He is much better suited to dance with you, after all." He can't help the vicious pleasure he feels at the way her face falls, twisting from its calm into a much uglier expression. "How is Jaime's hand? I hear the physical therapy is going well."

"Very well," she replies, her voice trembling despite how she tries to keep the anger out of it. "And I'll be sure to let my husband know you wanted to speak with him. He simply adores you, he thinks you're the smartest man he's ever met. He used to always talk about how clever you were in high school." Suddenly, her expression changes, becoming more satisfied. "I asked him, once, how he knew you, when he was a senior while you were only a freshman, and he told me the party never really started until Littlefinger arrived."

"I had a number of friends," Petyr says mildly.

"If that's what we're calling clients now," she hisses, joyous in her miserable little victory, but before she can continue, his phone rings, stopping whatever she was about to say next.

"My apologies," he murmurs, smiling amiably as he steps back from her, pulling his cell from his jacket and pressing the accept call button before he can register who it is. "I really must take this."

He walks away before Cersei can say anything else, leaving her standing alone in the center of the dance floor. Once he reaches the furthermost tables, closer to the doors of the reception hall, he lifts the phone to his ear, greeting the caller with nothing more than, "Yes?"

He probably should have expected it, but he still goes still when he hears Sansa speaking on the other end. "How's the wedding?" she asks lightly, forgoing a hello entirely, the same way he did.

She knows that he'll know who it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, but is there anything realer than a modern au young Petyr being a drug dealer/other things dealer? Is there? Like, a. it requires a certain amount of salesmanship and tact along with intimidation, b. it supplements whatever minimum wage job he has to pay his way through school, c. it makes him well-liked and gets him invited to all the cool parties with all the rich kids, d. he's totally clever enough to make his money and scheme his way out of the game when he no longer needs it (while still keeping all of his old connections, of course, Just In Case), and e. he has absolutely no scruples. If anyone disagrees, fight me (not really, do not fight me).
> 
> Also, I recently saw Mad Max (the new one, not the original trilogy, though I need to watch those too), which means I need about five thousand Mad Max au fics now, and I mean now. Where are my Mad Max aus? Where are my Mad Max Petyr/Sansa aus? Where are they???
> 
> Sorry about the late update, but I have been traveling! I am in a different time zone now, too, it's crazy. The next few chapters will probably take more time, but never fear! I am strong and tough and cooler than cool.


	15. A Glimpse

_ God I want you _  
_ in some primal, wild way_  
_ animals want each other._  
_ Untamed and full of teeth._

_ God I want you, _  
_ In some chaste, Victorian way._  
_ A glimpse of your ankle_  
_ just kills me._

(CLEMENTINE VON RADICS)

 

 

 

 

In the hall outside of a wedding reception he had absolutely no desire to attend, Petyr paces the length of the double doors - three steps this way, three steps another way, three steps a third way, then back again. In his hand is a phone that he presses to his temple, where his hair is beginning to gray in streaks of silver, and on the other end of the line is a girl with hair that's all one color, red as a flame that's only just flickered into life, who is pacing, too, only somewhere else. He has seen her make calls before; like him, she can't stand still.

"Where are you?" he says, hears himself say. He wants to be able to picture her, he thinks, but it's also possible he wants to know how far away she is - if he leaves now, how long it would take to get to her.

"Bloomington." She titters, static replacing her voice for a moment as if she's turning her head, looking around. "I'm at IU, but I don't really know where. Jeyne's on a campus tour, and I'm just sort of wandering around. I told her I'd visit with her. We don't get back until Sunday night." She adds the last part deliberately, as if knowing he'll ask.

"Let me guess," he intones, "your unavoidable conflict?"

"The plans were made months ago, Dr. Baelish," she replies, her tone nearly chastising, but mostly just amused. "I couldn't just abandon her."

"Well aren't you clever."

He can hear the smile in her voice as she says, "I like to think so." She sighs, a little huff of irritation. "Except my phone's almost dead, and I left my charger at home, so - maybe not. Anyway, you didn't answer my question. How is the wedding?"

"Do you want the truth or do you want the headlines?"

She hums, as if deliberating carefully. "Both."

"Wealthy heir weds perfect match," he recites for her. "Divorce imminent."

She laughs, and Petyr feels himself relax a little. Clearly she's much better at hiding her hurt than he assumed she would be. He thinks again, briefly, of how clever she is, how she's a natural at all of this, when it took him so many years to learn how to hold his tongue, how to never lose his connections even with people he loathes, how to never bite the hands that strike him when tomorrow they might feed him. It took him too long to realize that his armor was his way with words and not his fists, his unreliable muscles; it seems to have taken her little more than a year.

"Why are you calling?" he asks.

"I wanted to talk to someone." She hesitates for the smallest beat. He imagines her, then, pictures how she might be walking up the worn paths through the trees, how she might bring her hand up to twist itself through her hair. "I wanted to talk to _you_."

He furrows his brow momentarily. "Are you really okay with all of this, Sansa? You don't have to -"

"I don't mean about the wedding," she interrupts, her words hard and crisp.

"What then?"

Her voice is soft when she speaks next, nearly gentle, and that's a warning in and of itself. "Why did you kiss me," she murmurs, the sentence lilting down like it isn't even a question.

"Well," he mutters, almost ruefully, almost proudly, and he can't quite say he's completely shocked, but that doesn't mean she didn't catch him off guard. "You go straight for the jugular, don't you?"

"It's been two weeks. You haven't mentioned it at all. Like, not even once."

"Neither have you," he points out, "until now. Why now, exactly?"

"Because you can't see me, and I can't see you, or anything. And there's a couple hours worth of distance between us." She repeats herself, quieter than before: "Why did you kiss me?"

Petyr can't think this through quickly enough, not this. "Why not?" he says lightly, avoiding, but Sansa only scoffs at him.

"That's a bullshit answer," she insists, "everyone knows that."

He shrugs, forgetting that she can't see him. "Because I wanted to," he replies calmly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to admit, the easiest thing to say, even as he has to pull the word forcibly from his throat. That's an important rule he's breaking now - never confess to wanting anything in particular. This girl, he thinks. He can't even see her, and _yet_.

"Do you still want to?" she asks, nervous, like she really doesn't know the answer. _How ridiculous._ "You haven't -"

"Yes," he says. "I always want to." He doesn't know if he says those last few words right. He might say  _I always want you,_  but he can't really tell.

She inhales, the sound sharp and uneven. Abruptly, she changes the subject, asking, "If you were here, what would you do?"

"In Indiana?' He narrows his eyes, glancing up at the ceiling, where he can see secondhand paintwork decorating the tiles. Probably no less expensive, though, considering the building's clientele. "I'd probably jump under a train. They do have trains in that godforsaken state, don't they?"

"No, you're not paying attention," she says, clarifying, and her voice has gotten smaller than before, her breath nearly catching on every other word. "If you were here, Petyr, what would you do to _me_?"

He stops pacing, standing across the hall from the doors to the reception, and he can still hear the music from inside, he can still hear all the useless noise of everything that isn't her. He turns away, pushing his phone closer to his ear. "Sansa?"

"You -" she says, then suddenly her voice cuts off, replaced with nothing but the static echoing in his ear.

"Sansa?" Petyr checks the screen hurriedly, only to find that the call has disconnected. He had totally forgotten about her battery dying. "Fuck." He taps a few buttons, trying to get her back on the line, but the call goes straight to voicemail. " _Fuck,_ " he says again, louder than before.

"Petyr!" a woman's voice calls from behind him, a shrill rendition of his name that makes him cringe out of habit. He turns, looking up to find Lysa Arryn grinning widely at him, her eyes bright, her hair dull. He must not have noticed the doors opening; was he really so distracted? He wants to leave as quickly as possible at the sight of her, and for a second he considers doing so, but he has a feeling she wouldn't let him.

Just seconds ago, he could hear Sansa's voice buzzing through his skull, her every syllable sweet and perfect, her every word as if designed to knock his breath from his lungs.

"Lysa," he says, forcing a smile onto his unwilling features. "What a pleasant surprise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The theme for this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8Kh4wCiDz0) You're welcome. The last verse is everything to me in regards to these two. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a telephone call must be cut off at the absolutely most important part, leaving all parties annoyed and sexually frustrated. And then Lysa has to show up.
> 
> I just adore characters revealing things over the phone, as evidenced by pretty much this entire fic. I find it really difficult to have a serious conversation with someone during a call, because I can't gauge their reaction accurately, and I find it so fascinating to consider how other people handle that as well, particularly Petyr and Sansa, who spend so much time trying to figure out what anyone else and each other are going to do next. What a wondrous thing is the modern au. (Also, I like Indiana, but I feel like Petyr would have a lot of contempt for most midwestern states.)
> 
> Sort of related, but not really: I finished _Deathless_ and I am still very tender about it! Do NOT talk to me about this book! Do not talk to me about all the Petyr/Sansa parallels! NO ONE (NO ONE) LOOK AT ME!!! I am fine!!!


	16. No Offense

_ Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick. _

(RAYMOND CARVER)

 

 

 

 

If Cat ever asks, which she has a few times before, he doesn't dislike her sister in the least bit. He finds her perfectly charming, perfectly polite, perfectly kind, thoughtful, agreeable, honest, and interesting. If they haven't spoken in a few years, it's because their schedules never seem to align, it's because he always misses her calls and her email messages never go through, because he leaves parties right before she arrives and vice versa - an unfortunate coincidence, of course. She has done so much for him, for his career, and he owes all of his success to the charity of her and her husband, God rest his soul. Their impeccable charity, done out of the kindness of their hearts.

If anyone else asks, which no one has as of yet, luckily, the answer to the question of whether or not he likes Catelyn Tully's sister is considerably different.

"It's been a pleasure catching up, Lysa, but I really must be heading home." Petyr smiles, a quick flash of teeth that has to look like a grimace more than anything else. If Lysa notices, though, she doesn't say anything. "I have work tonight." A lie, obviously; he's only on call for tomorrow, but she doesn't need to know that.

"My Petyr," she coos, reaching her hand tenderly for his cheek, and he takes care not to flinch even as he leans away from her grasp, just out of reach, as if by accident. Her touch always manages to make him shudder; her hands are always freezing, as if she had pressed them against ice right before seeing him. "Always so industrious. Even when we were children, you were always so hardworking. I always knew you'd be a success. Don't you remember how I told Jon that? Don't you remember, Petyr?"

"What can I say," he mutters, his voice a monotone. "I owe both of you so much."

"You can't leave yet, though. Not until we've had one dance." She sidles closer to him, not quite pressing up against his chest, but close enough that he can see her hair graying at the roots, where she needs to get it touched up, her eyes wide and always ever so slightly unhinged, her hands fragile where the skin of her knuckles is thin as paper. She bats her eyelashes at him, the gesture of a much younger woman that doesn't fit her at all. "Like old times. Don't you remember?"

_No_ , he should say, no, all he remembers are flashes of auburn hair, cold hands at his shoulders, the taste of vodka on his breath. He had been drinking it straight that night, drinking straight vodka from a water bottle with no chaser and smoking cigarette after cigarette until he felt he might throw up with it, throw up or catch fire on his tongue from all the alcohol, and listening to the same song over and over, the same song drowning out the noise from the party downstairs.

No, he can't remember it; all he can remember is the bottle of vodka, the pack of cigarettes, the red hair, the cold hands, and The Cure playing loud because he was a teenager and her sister had _laughed_ at him and the room was spinning so he laid back in bed and  _boys don't cry boys don't cry_.

He gives a noncommittal nod. "I really must be going," he repeats, a tad more forcefully this time. If he doesn't leave now, he'll say something terrible to her, and he's not so much concerned with feeling any guilt for it as much as he is that she'll pass the information on to Cat, and then Cat will tell Sansa and then -

"I won't take no for an answer," she insists, but even before she finishes the sentence her face suddenly hardens, her eyes alighting with fury. "Unless," she says, punctuating each word with a sharp little breath, "what Varys told me is _true_."

Fucking Varys. The man probably thought it was funny, too. Petyr will get him back for that later.

"What are you talking about?" He furrows his brow in confusion, the perfect picture of innocence, and opposite him Lysa relaxes slightly, some of the anger receding from her gaze.

"I knew it," she says gratefully, this time grabbing his face in her palm before he can move away, "I knew he was lying. You'd never be so foolish."

Petyr shrugs, casual, always so ingratiating. "You know me."

"She's my family," Lysa continues, skimming her fingers against his temple, "but my niece has always been -" She glances around, as if searching for listeners, though they're the only ones in the hallway, and the next word is a whisper, " _promiscuous_. Cersei told me all about her and Joffrey and how Sansa wanted to get married, after only a month! Cat won't listen to me, of course, she's always been blind about her children, but I thought perhaps Sansa had tried something with you. You would never be so foolish, though, my Petyr, how could I even _think_ -"

"Lysa," Petyr interjects, wrenching her hand away with his own, holding it tightly, too tightly. He can see the flicker of pain across her features, and he relishes it for a brief moment before loosening his grip on her. "My dear Lysa. I have only loved one woman in my entire life."

She smiles brightly, her face open, expectant. Cat's little tagalong sister, her fading red hair, her frozen hands, the vodka in his mouth, and everything. Oh, he's going to _enjoy_ this.

Petyr brings her hand to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles, and he can feel her shaking with excitement, with delight at her long-awaited victory.

"Only Cat," he says, and it's not even a moment before he turns from her and walks evenly down the hall, not pausing to look back.

He doesn't realize until he gets outside that he's smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every Catholic mom (including my own) I have ever encountered uses the word "promiscuous" when talking about a girl sleeping around because it's less judgmental sounding and it implies concern about the girl's behavior, so I considered it appropriate. That's not to say these woman (especially my mom, who is the bomb diggity) are bad people, it just means they're more conservative and old-fashioned, as older generation Catholics tend to be. Also, Varys and Petyr are frenemies, you heard it here, folks, and of course I had to have Petyr shit on Lysa's whole life because as much as he is "deceitful" and "a betrayer of everyone he meets," he's also just kind of a dick. Like, seriously, what an asshole.
> 
> This fic is pretty damn high school, but I kind of love it? I feel like the adult world is more high school than anyone wants to admit, but that may be just me.


	17. A Better Fate Than Wisdom

_ my blood approves, _   
_ and kisses are a better fate_   
_ than wisdom_

(E. E. CUMMINGS)

 

 

 

 

The doorbell startles him awake from where he had fallen asleep on his desk, which is the only reason he knows he was sleeping in the first place. He really needs to talk to Stannis about his shift schedule and hiring someone to replace Jaime, since the prick doesn't seem to be coming back to work anytime soon. Petyr has taken to passing out at odd hours, in odd places, like he's some first year resident, like he's some fucking college student.

He's tired, he's groggy, he's still annoyed about having to dedicate most of his Saturday to some pathetic excuse for a wedding, and the goddamn doorbell will not stop ringing.

"Christ," he groans as he staggers to his feet, knocking over his book and torn open envelopes in the process - all bills, of course, no one writes letters anymore. He has no idea what time it is; it could very well be the middle of the afternoon or the middle of the night. Thank god he has the day off tomorrow, if not the day after.

He grabs at the can of Altoids by the desk lamp and shakes out all of the mints onto the table, popping two into his mouth to get the taste of sleep out.

"Jesus Christ, I'm coming, just shut the fuck up," he yells halfheartedly to the door as he winds his way over to it, running a hand through his hair in some pointless attempt to right it. He's wearing only a t-shirt and boxers and boots that he slid on over his bare feet, but he can't bring himself to care about changing into something more presentable.

Fuck whoever woke him up. Fuck them.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he accuses when he opens the door, the words spilling out before he can register who it is.

Sansa blinks, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. "Is that a rhetorical question?"

Petyr narrows his eyes, dragging his hand over his face. Sansa Stark is standing on his porch, and he's just shouted at her to shut the fuck up. Jesus Christ. "I don't know," he says.

"It's eleven thirty." She shifts on her feet, pulling the strap of her tote bag higher on her shoulder.

"Okay," he replies, unsure about how he's supposed to be reacting. He should probably invite her in, right? She must have been driving all day and he's being rude, he thinks, he spends so much time alone he can't really tell sometimes.

"You didn't come to Indiana," she says, the sentence abrupt and stilted, like she isn't quite certain of it.

"I didn't know where you were," he says, crossing his arms, suddenly defensive. "Did you want me to just wander around until I found you?"

Her mouth turns up slightly at the corners. "Maybe."

"I couldn't just leave town." He's annoyed now, and it comes through in his voice, the hostility beginning to edge into every word. Why won't she just say what she means? "Some of us have to work for a living, you know."

Her open amusement couldn't have left her face any faster than if he had slapped it off. She drops her arm from her shoulder, and her bag hits the snowed-on porch with a muffled thud. "You know what -" she begins, but before she finishes the thought she suddenly stops herself, raising a hand as if signaling something to herself. "Goodnight, Dr. Baelish," she says coldly, grabbing her bag from the ground and turning to her right to hurry back down the stairs.

Before she can make it more than a few steps though, he has stepped out onto the porch and grabbed at her wrist, holding it lightly in his palm to stop her progress, and the only word that comes out is, "Wait." Sansa startles, and when she looks down at where he's holding onto her she seems almost frightened.

Remembering himself, Petyr releases her, taking a step back. "Why are you here," he asks, but it doesn't sound like a question. He's so tired, he's tired and he's so much older than her, and he can't think, he can't think fast enough when she's here, what had she said to him again? _If you were here -_

"Oh my god," she says, almost laughing, rubbing her fingers back and forth across where he touched her. "I practically throw myself at you for two weeks, and that's all you can say?" When he doesn't move, doesn't do anything at all, Sansa shrugs her shoulders, as if to say _I told you so_.

He can remember once, last week, when they had been eating together, that she had taken the lemon she got for her Coke and darted out her tongue to lick the sour taste from it. He remembered how she had eyed him as she did so, and how he had only glanced away and focused on the vending machine that Davos Seaworth appeared to be physically assaulting. He had wondered if she was trying to torture him, really, remind him of exactly what he wasn't supposed to want.

At least no one can claim that her flirtations have any pretense.

"Look," she continues, "you said you wanted - so I don't know, I drove here and thought I'd see if you were home and -"

"I didn't want to make you more uncomfortable," he interrupts, suddenly understanding, and really, when did he become so slow on the uptake? Even in medical school, there was never a time when he wasn't the most clever person in the room. He's sure the girl standing in front of him, disheveled and gorgeous like some mirage sent to drive men lost in the desert insane, has everything to do with it. "I already told you. Christ - how could you possibly think I wouldn't want you?"

Sansa is just standing there, unmoving, her blue eyes bright and blue enough to drown in, her pink lips parted. His arm reaches out of its own accord, his hand thumbing at her shoulder until the strap of her bag falls away and the heavy luggage hits the ground.

"Jeyne and I met up with some friends at IU," she says, taking a step forward, so that his arm is bent, his hand falling to tangle in her hair. "She called her mom, and we decided to stay the night. You know, just to get a better feel for the campus. We won't be driving back until tomorrow morning."

He's almost impressed. "You're still in Indiana, then?"

"For all intents and purposes," she breathes, and she leans forward to press her lips to his.

At the beginning, the movements of her mouth are all soft and tenuous, all lightness and hesitation, like she's certain that at any moment he'll push her away. As if any man in his right mind would push her away. She brings one hand to his jaw, the other moving around to his shoulder, and he could die, at the way her body presses up against him, she must be trying to kill him. There's no other explanation, not with the way her mouth opens to slide her tongue against his, a little gasp escaping from her when he threads his fingers through her hair and moves his palm to the small of her back. Even with the heavy jacket draped over her, he can feel all of her, warm as a summer's day on his skin.

He doesn't even realize he's walking forward until her back hits the porch railing, and at the sudden obstacle she breaks away from him. Her eyes are glittering, her cheeks flushed, and she brings her hand up to her lips like she isn't quite sure of what just happened.

That makes two of them.

"Oh my god," she exclaims suddenly, realizing something, "you must be freezing."

He had forgotten about the cold, but at her mention of it he remembers the biting wind, the snow gathered around their feet. It doesn't matter, though, it doesn't matter; he can hardly even feel it.

"It's warmer inside," he says idly, and, as she stoops to pick up her bag, she blushes. He hopes she never rids herself of that habit.

Sansa walks into the house, the door still open and letting in the cold, and, like a starving man, Petyr follows quickly after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, they finally kissed again. And it's only been what, seven chapters? Maybe in fourteen more they'll finally have sex.
> 
> LOL YOU KNOW I'M PLAYING, SEX IS SOON TO FOLLOW but not as soon as you think~~~
> 
> Another thing: I have started a GoT rewatch (don't judge me, the first few seasons are still very good), because I paid absolutely no attention to my main weasel man PB (believing him to be just another bland old white guy) until, like, mid season 4, and I therefore need to watch from the beginning with everything I know now. I'm also gonna start reading the books, but that won't happen until July because my sister has the first book back home ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S1 Petyr is also OUT OF THIS WORLD how could I not pay attention to him? He's so creeptastic with Sansa and snippy about his brothel and he gets into passive aggressive fights with Varys about who has the hottest gossip it's absolutely wonderful. Also, Aidan Gillen plays his rage so well, like, every time Petyr's on screen you can just see this very restrained anger simmering underneath the surface. I mean, the scene where he explains the nickname "Littlefinger" is so great, _so you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname!!! haha they're just kidding tho we're all really good friends :) i won't ruin their lives or anything :))) i'm not planning anything devious >:))))))_


	18. Ruin You

_ Fall for them but don't let them ruin you. _

(ERNEST HEMINGWAY)

 

 

 

 

The house is cold even with the door finally closed, and with the distraction of Sansa diminished, if not gone entirely, Petyr can feel himself beginning to shiver. The girl walking idly around his living room is blithely unaffected, and as she trails her hands along the mantle of his fireplace, running her fingers over the very few knick knacks he has there, she deposits her bag on the floor.

Petyr kicks off his boots near the front door, as she did, and walks quickly over to start a fire. As he kneels on the stone floor, watching the spark flicker into life, Sansa makes her way over to his bookshelf, picking out something with a plain cover and tucking it under her arm.

He turns to watch as she paces back over to the warmth of the fire, shrugging her jacket and scarf onto his armchair. This leaves her in a light green sweater and jeans, baring her pale throat, her ivory collarbone, the flushed tips of her shoulders.

Petyr glances away, swallowing hard. Since when did he find _necklines_ arousing?

She eventually winds her way over to where he's sitting, resting back on his hands. She takes a place beside him on the carpet, settling on her heels as she flips the book open to a random page, as if she might begin reading.

Petyr smirks at the way her eyes widen at the words, even more so when she looks up at him and blurts out, "This isn't in English."

He takes the open book gently from her hands, careful not to crease the edges. "My father used to worry that I wouldn't become fully fluent," he says idly as he scans over the page, "living in America. I'd be able to speak it well enough, sure, I still talked to him on the phone, but if I didn't practice, I'd never read or write in Polish as well as I could in English. He'd send me a few books every year, on my birthday. This is one of the later ones."

Sansa tilts her head, shifting so her knees are bent at her front, her feet close to the heat of the fire. "When's your birthday?"

He quirks a smile at the curiosity in her tone. "You already missed it, darling."

"Did I say I was going to get you a present?" She struggles to keep her face straight, but he can see her eyes lighting up in amusement.

"I'm heartbroken, Sansa," he deadpans, resting a hand over his heart, as if she had deeply wounded him. He closes the book with his other hand, resting it beside the fireplace, where it won't accidentally get knocked in. "Aren't we friends?"

"No," she replies, suddenly serious. Her eyes are intent, and in them he can see the light, the flames cackling orange and red. "Not really."

They're just staring at each other, her eyes all bright and uncertain, her teeth biting at her lower lip, her hair tangled from the wind. How, he wonders, could he have possibly been expected to resist?

"December thirtieth," he says abruptly, and when Sansa furrows her brow in confusion, he clarifies, "My birthday."

"Well," she murmurs, her gaze falling to his chest, where her hands are sliding up to grip at his shoulders, "did you get what you wanted?" Her eyes flicker back up, looking at him from underneath her lashes.

"Almost," he breathes, nodding, and presses forward to kiss her.

It's just like before, at first, and he's careful to be gentle in how he touches her, in how he holds her face in his hands and moves his lips in time with hers. He needs to remember who he's with, but he's not some inexperienced boy who barely knows what to do with himself, let alone a woman. Soon enough the kiss changes, becoming openmouthed and desperate as his hands fall to her waist, gripping her almost harshly. He can feel a part of himself trying to draw him back, reminding him to be slow, to be cautious, but it's difficult to think when Sansa is so soft in his arms, when she's gasping as he presses his tongue between her teeth, when she's tightening her hold on the hair at the nape of his neck.

He maneuvers her so that she's laying down across from the fire, and he crawls over her body so he can settle himself between her legs. Then, suddenly, what's left of his restraint is gone, as nonexistent as if it hadn't been there in the first place. He can think of nothing, nothing but her, all red and shivering in his hands, and she's underneath him, her mouth hot and open and reciprocating his every movement, and it's for _him_ , all of it, all of it is his, his, _his_.

He can feel himself getting hard, and when he rolls his hips against her he knows she can tell, an involuntary whimper escaping her.

Petyr breaks away suddenly, breathing heavily, attempting to control his reactions. Fuck him, this is just a kiss; he's not some teenager who could come from looking at a Victoria's Secret catalogue. He tries to recall the tactic he used during college, back when he'd pick up girls at parties with the word  _pre-med_ and promises of more alcohol in his dorm room.

He starts kissing his way down her neck, pleased at the stifled moan he feels humming in her throat - _mandible, clavicle, cervical vertebrae_  - he's tempted to suck a bruise under her jaw, but she will need to go home tomorrow, won't she, he'd better not - _thoracic vertebrae, sternum, ribs, scapula_ \- he reaches the bottom of her sweater, and he tugs the material up slowly, reminding himself not to rip the thing off of her - _trapezium, scaphoid, lunate, fuck, what are the others?_ \- and this time she can't conceal her whine as he begins to lick his way up her stomach, revealing more and more skin as he goes.

On her left side, as he presses his mouth just under her ribs, he can feel twisted, raised skin in the shape of a largish circle under his fingers. Petyr strokes the burn absently, and his voice is quiet as he asks, "What happened here?"

Sansa suddenly goes rigid in his grasp, and before he can so much as murmur a word of reassurance, she sits up, nearly knocking him over in her hurry to get away, and rolls her sweater back into place.

"Nothing," she insists quickly, her eyes flashing pale in the dim light.

He can practically feel his stare going flat and cold. "What did he do to you?" Petyr doesn't need to say who _he_ is; she must already know that he knows. Maybe she even expected him to bring it up one day.

Sansa tries to laugh, but the sound strangles on its way out. She brushes a hand roughly over her cheeks, moving her hair out of her face, and blinks twice. "It wasn't him, it was his friend. He needed somewhere to put out his cigar. Joffrey was angry about it, actually. It should have been his decision to make."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Petyr is already beginning to plan exactly what he wants to do, down to the bastard's last breath, but he does have a career to consider, the girl in front of him to consider. He reaches for her side, but she flinches away.

"Don't," she says, nearly begs, and he can see her blinking faster now, "it's _ugly_."

He stills. "What?"

"I know I'm just being vain, I know, I know, but don't look, okay? Please?"

"Sansa, look at me." She finally meets his eyes, her fingers relaxing a little from where they're tight around her clothes. "This couldn't make you ugly, you know that, right?"

"You're just saying that," she mutters, her voice wavering.

"No, I'm not," he replies, almost harsh in his refutation. "You know I'm not. I mean, fuck - you could have a scar covering half of your face and you'd still be the most beautiful woman anyone's ever seen."

Sansa is looking at him strangely, like she's just now noticing him, and Petyr clears his throat, uncomfortable. "Besides," he continues, "scars aren't a problem. They just add character."

"That's what everyone _says_ , but -"

"I have a few of my own, you know. Look," he says, tugging up his left sleeve, "we even match."

Her hand flits briefly to the burn on his upper arm, a smaller version of the circle on her side. "What happened?"

"It was a dare," he explains. "Your uncle Edmure told me to put out my cigarette on my arm." He pauses, waiting as she circles the old injury with her fingers. "Now that I say it out loud, I don't think he actually intended for me to do it."

Sansa laughs softly. "Well, why did you?"

"I was sixteen," he states, as if it were obvious. "I had to prove I wasn't scared." She pulls her hand away again, leaving his arm cold from the absence. "See? Scars aren't a problem."

She nods, slow and hesitant, not quite ready to believe him. "Okay," she murmurs, "okay."

He considers, momentarily, trying to get back whatever was happening before, kissing her again, but Sansa is still curled up into herself, her knees tucked to her chest protectively. She's not in any place to do anything that involves showing skin, he knows. Petyr stands, and she must, for a second, think he means to leave because she makes a noise of protest, but he only holds his hand out to her. She takes it, pulling herself up onto her feet.

"Come on," he says, dropping his hand again, "you've been driving for a while."

He picks up her bag on the way into the hall and guides her to his bedroom, leading her by the small of her back. At the door, Sansa blushes, but he reassures her, unable to help the sly tone that works its way into his voice, "My intentions are entirely pure, sweetling."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're lying?" She smiles, a slight uptick of her lips, and he shrugs.

"Because I am," he says, walking over to the bed and turning down the comforter. Sansa follows, standing beside him as he lets her luggage fall by the nightstand. "I'll give you some privacy," he mutters. "I'll be just out there if you need anything."

He leaves almost as quickly as he came, striding quickly down the hall and trying his best to ignore the girl in his room, how she was panting and writhing underneath him just ten minutes ago and he just _had_ to ruin it.

Maybe Varys is right. Maybe he can't close anymore. Petyr was never one for long-term relationships, but he was always good at talking his way into almost anything, and he didn't fare so poorly as Robert Baratheon seems to believe. But as he got older, he stopped going to bars almost entirely, preferring drinking alone to another woman invading his living space, asking _what is it like to be a doctor where did you go to school have you ever been married oh my god_ _what happened to your chest?_

"Petyr?" Sansa calls suddenly, and he startles, turning to see her standing across the room at the end of the hall. Her red hair is loose around her shoulders, her arms folded so that she can grip at her elbows, and she has changed out of her clothing into what she's wearing to sleep. Rather than her own clothes, though, she has donned one of his dress shirts, the bottom of it ending far above her knees.

He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if she's trying to kill him.

"Yeah?" he says, grateful that his voice doesn't crack.

"Aren't you going to -" Here, she seems to grow more nervous, jerking her head in the direction of his room rather than finish her thought.

"I thought you'd like some space."

"It's not - I just don't want to be alone." She seems to pale at the admission, but her voice gets stronger as she continues, "Plus, it's your room, right? You should use it at some point."

"What do you -"

"I clearly woke you up, but your bed was still made," she cuts in. "You should really stop sleeping on the couch, Petyr. It can't be good for your back."

"Jesus Christ, I'm not _that_ old," he protests, but Sansa is already laughing at him, her expression brighter than before.

"So sensitive," she teases, growing bolder. "I wonder what you'll do if I mention your hair. I bet I could make you cry."

"I bet you could do all kinds of interesting things," he replies easily, and he's altogether too satisfied at how she flushes at that.

"Come on," she says, pretending to ignore the meaning of his words and turning back to walk down the hall, "we should sleep."

For a moment, Petyr considers simply staying put, not climbing into bed with a woman he can't actually touch ( _for the moment_ , he reasons, but it's little consolation) and torturing himself further, but with a groan he stands and drags his hand over his face. God damn it.

"I'll be there in a minute," he calls, cursing himself all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty lengthy chapter, but fuck it, I didn't want to divide it into two parts. FUCK IT. Also, about the burns, yeah, maybe they ain't canon, but I find it difficult to believe that modern Sansa never got some sort of scar from Joffrey and Petyr never got any smaller injuries during his time with the Tullys. Believe what you want, but I personally have never encountered willful destruction of the physical body (either the self or someone else) quite like that of a teenage boy.
> 
> This fic is pretty fluffy (as were my last few), but God fucking damn it, I can't bring myself to cause Sansa any more pain, even in fic. I'll probably be writing fluff for as long as possible until I can bring myself to write more gritty stuff. *gene belcher voice* THIS IS ME NOW.
> 
> Okay, also, this would be the most self-indulgent bullshit but imagine IMAGINE...Petyr/Sansa Lost in Translation AU. But with sex. Actually, imagine Petyr/Sansa as a self-indulgent indie movie where everything is flighty and pale and everyone's sad but, like, in a pretty way.


	19. Ruin Me

_"Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?"_  
_"Yes. I want to ruin you."_  
_"Good," I said. "That's what I want too."_

(ERNEST HEMINGWAY)

 

 

 

 

In the morning, he wakes up to the light, already beginning to seep in through the sheer curtains on his windows. It's the winter sun, the kind only seen in the dead of January, all white, without a bit of color in it. It makes his room seem emptier than it is, casting everything in a pale, withering glow.

In front of him, Sansa sighs in her sleep, her hair vivid against the white pillows, against his pale shirt, against her fair skin, as red as a spill of blood. She's entirely unselfconscious like this, her arm tucked under her head and her hand loose around the sheets, her mouth open as she breathes deep and even.

She had been careful in keeping to herself when he first fell into the bed, easily ensuring a safe distance between them, but now she's closer to him than before, so close he can see the blue veins under the skin of her eyelids, so close his palm is pressing against her back, her body warm even through the fabric of his shirt. Even worse, her legs are twined through with his, her ankle between his shins, her thigh hitched around his waist.

It's pure dumb luck that he didn't wake up with an erection, a fact he's grateful for, but he's still all too aware that with every breath her chest pushes against him, her hip brushes against him, and he needs to leave, now, before the situation becomes any more embarrassing.

Except he can't quite figure out how to extricate himself from her embrace. He can't remember the last time he slept through the night with a woman, and even then he never considered how to go about getting up without unsettling her. It just didn't matter to him.

By the time he finally decides on just getting out of bed as quickly as possible, Sansa shifts again, pressing even closer. Petyr stops himself from swearing aloud, but as if she could sense his dilemma she suddenly begins to rouse, letting out a soft moan as she stretches her stiff muscles. Her eyes flicker open, and as she begins to enter back into reality, she glances up, meeting his gaze.

As she does, her heel digs into the back of his knee, and the rest of her is flush against him, her hips and legs moving in such an unsophisticated way that he can almost imagine that the reaction she's beginning to cause is simply collateral damage. But rather than shy away from his growing hardness, Sansa undulates her body, and this time the motion is unbearably deliberate. Petyr can feel his breath hitch in his throat, and he goes still.

"Don't do that," he warns, his fingers tightening into a fist at her back, clenching the material of his shirt in his hands.

"Do what?" she asks, all innocent, all parted lips and fluttering eyelashes, as if she isn't completely aware of herself.

"You know," he grits out, and Sansa laughs, the sound somewhere between amusement and mocking, but her smile is open and genuine, content with her rudimentary seduction.

"I'm sorry," she says, glancing down to where her fingers are toying with a loose thread at his collar, "it's just you're so weak."

Petyr smirks, but Sansa, still reveling in the success of her own charm, doesn't see it. "Oh, am I?"

"You shouldn't feel bad, Petyr," she admonishes. "Most men are." At this last phrase, she finally glances up at his face, but when she notices his expression she seems to falter slightly, as if only now realizing her error.

He grips tighter at her waist, rolling her quickly underneath him, and she inhales, fast and sharp. Rather than kissing her, though, as Sansa seems to expect, he instead presses his mouth to under her jaw and begins working his way down her neck, toward the top of the dress shirt.

"Who's weak now?" he murmurs, beginning to undo the buttons, one by one by one. His mouth follows his hands down her torso, pressing light kisses to the skin he manages to reveal, from the sharp curve of her collarbone to the dip under her naval. He doesn't tear the shirt open yet - he wants to _savor_ this.

Sansa is breathing heavier, her chest rising and falling fast in her effort to bring air to her lungs, but even as he reaches the last button she manages to gasp out, "Still you."

His laugh is a hum against her stomach, and she makes a strangled little noise from the vibration, her knees bending as if she might sit up. Petyr rests a reassuring hand on her hip, and with the other he works the fabric of the dress shirt open, the sides of it slipping from her skin to pool at her waist.

As he leans back to look at her, to run his eyes across the soft line of her shoulders, her lean stomach, her perfect breasts, he can practically feel his gaze darkening, his mouth twisting into a smirk. She inhales like a hiss as he traces over the scar on her side, but she doesn't move away as she did last night. Her muscles are jumping under his touch:  _transverse abdominus_ , he recalls, _external and internal obliques,_ but the tactic isn't quite working this time and he doesn't really care about remembering the rest. Sansa seems to grow flustered the longer he looks, her entire body shifting and fidgeting in place.

"You're gorgeous," he tells her, and she flushes.

He remembers, suddenly, how young she is, how she likely isn't used to the focused attentions of a man. Joffrey probably never appreciated what Petyr is seeing before him, and the thought, as juvenile as he knows it is, is a pleasing one.

Abruptly, he wonders if Joffrey ever had the chance to see this at all, if Petyr is the first person to see her undressed in these circumstances. For half a moment, he tries to rebuke himself, _this is sick, you're_ sick, _she's only eighteen, she's so innocent, and you're sick_  and for half a moment he tries to summon the guilt he should be feeling. Instead, he can only bring himself to feel satisfaction - satisfaction that she's here with _him_ , not some boy who couldn't make her come to save his life; satisfaction that he'll likely be the first man to make her writhe in pleasure; satisfaction that whatever else happens, this will only ever be his.

No one else will ever get this same nervous energy, this same trembling and squirming of anticipation, the same sigh of approval as he bends his head to tongue a trail across her chest, as he begins to peel her underwear from her legs, her simple cotton panties, pink with little white polka dots, that he tosses onto the floor.

He tries again to make himself feel some semblance of shame, but he can't. Not when she's nodding her head, murmuring his name as he drags a slow finger through her curls, gasping it louder when he lowers his mouth down onto her.

 _Not illegal,_ he remembers. Then:  _not the same as not unethical_.

Sansa moans when he swipes his tongue hard against her, and Petyr decides, fuck being ethical. Ethics mean less than nothing compared to this girl, this vision of beauty arching and whimpering and gasping under his ministrations. She's here, she's here and she's saying yes, she wants this, and that's good enough.

He slides a finger inside of her, through the slickness of her body, and she clenches around him, a needy little breath escaping her.

"That's right," he mutters against her skin, all pretty and wet and for him, _for him_ , "that's it, darling," and she lets out another gasp.

"Oh my god, Petyr."

He tilts his head up to look at her as she moans his name, but rather than looking down to watch him, Sansa has an arm flung over her face, covering her eyes, the other hand pressed up against his headboard. He removes his mouth from her, and she whimpers at the loss, but he uses his fingers to continue rubbing against her, slipping into her.

He grips lightly at her wrist, pulling her arm away from her face and pinning it back against the comforter, over her long, red hair. She meets his eyes, her pupils wide and dark, and she must see something in his gaze because she whimpers again, her breath leaving her lungs in the shape of his name, the sound almost wounded.

"Look at me," he says, though he doesn't need to - she already is, " _Sansa._ "

It might be this last word that pushes her over the edge, and as he strokes her through it she comes, her entire body shivering and her voice strained as she lets out one last cry of release. He watches her with an almost scientific interest, cataloguing her facial expression, how her eyes widen, the sounds she makes as she relaxes again, her limbs loosening.

"Petyr," she mutters, reaching her hand for his thigh, and at this he snaps out of his reverie, remembering his own need evident through his boxers. She's looking up at him, her eyebrow raised in offering, and isn't that a thought, if she were to lean down and -

"No," he manages to get out, "no, not right now." It's stupid, almost immediately after he says it he regrets it, but Petyr knows he's nothing if not a show-off. He wants to prove beyond any doubt that he's better than any other boy she's ever been with, teenagers selfish with pleasure, taking everything and giving nothing in return.

He runs through one of his mental lists, and as he does he settles back into his comfortable compartmentalization, his hard-on beginning to die down. He can look at her as just another body like this, like there's nothing special about her. Control, he remembers, that's the most important part - careful, meticulous control of every action. He didn't even need medical school to tell him that.

Petyr stands once he's certain his reaction has been curbed, unable to help the twinge of pride he feels at his impeccable discipline. It always was his forte.

Sansa sits up, tucking the dress shirt back over her chest, watching as he makes his way over to the bathroom. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to take a shower," he replies, turning back at the door to look at her. He smirks. "I didn't get a chance yesterday. Someone showed up on my doorstep out of the blue. She didn't even call to warn me."

"That's pretty rude," she tosses back lightly. "I hope you didn't let her in."

"I had to. She took up half of my bed and stole my shirt, and now she's delaying my morning routine."

"That's awful," Sansa replies, shifting so that she too can get out of the bed. Petyr swallows hard as she stands up, her torso barely concealed by the shirt still draped on her. He can see her nipples peaking under the white fabric, the red curls at the apex of her thighs, and she smirks at how his gaze travels across her body, running hungrily over her form. "She should at least give you your shirt back."

"No, it's fine." When did his voice get so hoarse? She walks slowly to him, her hair loose and undone around her shoulders, her pale legs seeming to go on forever. "Really, Sansa."

A foot away, she finally stops, letting the material slide from her body as smoothly as water. She can't be the same girl as the one who could hardly watch when he made her come. The woman in front of him stands tall and regal even in her nakedness, as if she were royalty, holding his shirt out as if bestowing some gift unto him. She must, he thinks a little dizzily, have been a queen in another life.

Sansa smiles, victorious, as he takes the article of clothing, grateful that it covers his front.

She leans in close, as if she might kiss him, and then - " _Still you,_ " she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah the author is dead, blah blah blah, but this is just a confirmation: Petyr is going to jerk off in the shower. There is no way around it. It's canon (fic-canon).
> 
> What went so wrong with me? I said I would never write smut, yet here I AM. It's not super graphic, but STILL. But you know what, fuck it, I don't even care anymore. I'll write ten thousand sex scenes for PxS I DON'T CARE. Also, I just want to impress upon all of you that I have written four stories for these assholes in a row, which, for me, is _literally unprecedented._ I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY THIS SHIP HAS RUINED ME!!! hey, just like the title of this chapter~


	20. Rome

_ Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground. _

(MARK Z. DANIELEWSKI)

 

 

 

 

Sansa adds milk and four sugars to her coffee before she considers it bearable, and even then she makes a face when she finally takes a small, delicate sip. She's sitting on a chair behind the black counter in his kitchen, her hair still damp from her shower, while Petyr stands across from her, watching in amusement as she handles her mug as if it were a bomb. He take a drink from his own cup, his coffee black and bitter without anything added to balance the flavor.

"How do you stand that stuff?" she asks, crinkling her nose in distaste.

He smiles, drumming his fingers on the edge of the counter, one, two, three, four, and over again. "Practice. It's fast and cheap and when you're trying to stay awake there's nothing better. Besides," he adds, "you get used to it."

She grimaces, though whether it's at her drink or at the thought he can't really tell. "Remind me to never go to medical school."

The next sip he takes is too fast, and the liquid burns his throat as he swallows it down. Petyr hisses, baring his teeth. "Never go to medical school."

"That reminds me," she says, slow and considering, "shouldn't you be at work or something?"

He shakes his head. "Not till tomorrow," he says, and at this Sansa's face lights up, her eyes widening and mouth turning up in excitement. Petyr narrows his eyes, suddenly wary. "Does this mean you have an idea?"

"Yes."

"Will I like it?"

"Probably not at first."

"Are you going to strong arm me into it anyway?"

"Yes," she says decisively, hopping off of her chair and walking across his kitchen to rifle through the cabinet drawers. "Do you have anything to write with anywhere?" As she speaks, she continues opening and closing the drawers, rattling around in the few contents and moving on fast. "Oh my god, you have, like, nothing in here."

"I don't really entertain much," he replies, a tad defensively, but she's found what she was looking for and turns back to him with a pen perched between her fingers like another woman might hold a cigarette. Christ, he could really use a cigarette.

"Do you have anything to write on?" He must not answer fast enough for her, because she gives out a little huff of impatience and grabs at his arm, rolling up his sleeve and poising the pen under the crook of his elbow. He smirks, manages to get out, "Is this a habit of yours?" before she waves her hand, shushing him, and begins to write.

For a minute, she only works, writing painfully over his skin as he cranes his head away, so her hair (Jesus Christ, there's so much of it, he's going to be finding it in his bed and his shower for weeks, making everything smell like strawberries and cream - he can't decide if the thought is a pleasant one or an annoyance) doesn't get into his mouth. Whenever he tries to move, she taps her fingers lightly against his wrist, keeping her canvas still. He can't help but remember the first time she did this, when they had only spoken a few times, and yet she pressed close to him like they were comfortable enough to do a thing like that, like they had known each other for years. And in a way, he supposes, they had.

Did she know, then? He wonders about it now that she's here, in his house, now that's he's seen more of her than anyone else (and he's certain it was more than anyone else), now that she's been underneath him. From that first day, did she imagine for one moment what he was already thinking? He wants to know exactly when the idea occurred to her, down to the hour, the minute, the second, and Petyr can't say if it's because he wants her intentions when she first called him to have been entirely pure or something far less innocent. He doubts that she would tell him that, but he still wants to know all of it. All of her.

"There," she declares finally as she draws the pen back with one last flourish, stepping beside him to hold up his arm so that he can see what she wrote.

"Seriously," he says, glancing at her, "is this a habit of yours?"

Sansa shrugs. "When my friends and I got bored in class we'd write on each other's arms. Mom used to say I'd get ink poisoning."

"That's only a myth."

"Yeah, you didn't need to tell me that," she laughs, giving his arm a shake. "And you're not even reading it."

She must see him roll his eyes because she nudges his side with her elbow, and finally he looks up at his own skin and reads her cramped cursive, every point bulleted neatly with an open circle.

She watches him, waiting, and when he doesn't react quickly enough she explains. "It's Petyr Baelish's Day Off."

"Like the John Hughes movie?" Now that she's mentioned it, he can finally start to see the common thread running through everything: _drive expensive car, con way into nice lunch, Sears Tower, stock exchange, Art Institute, parade (?), baseball game_ (this scratched out, next to it the words _not really possible_ ), _wreck expensive car_. "We're not wrecking my car."

"I thought you might be averse to that one," she admits, drawing a line through the last phrase. "But the rest are good, right? There aren't any parades, but we can do something else, and I haven't been to the Sears Tower since third grade. And I can drop the car off at home and say I'm hanging out with Jeyne, Mom wouldn't mind."

"It's -" He wants to protest, he's too old for shit like this, she should save this odd idea for someone her own age, but he can't think of any real reasons, and besides, she's looking at him all open and expectant, like he has the capacity to disappoint her. How strange, Petyr thinks. How absolutely _terrifying_.

"It's freezing outside," he says lamely.

Sansa grins, wide and happy; she knows she's already won the argument. He should really be more careful, he decides. He's given this girl far too much ammunition as it is.

"Come on," she needles, "when's the last time you actually _did_ something?"

She must take his silence as agreement, because she tilts forward, giving him a chaste peck on the lips, and turns to dump the rest of her coffee in the sink. "I'm going to go blow dry my hair," she says as she leaves the kitchen, and it takes him a moment to realize something and call back, "I don't have a hair dryer."

Petyr hears her shout a few seconds later, just before a loud whir of the dryer switching on, "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn Stark is the classic paranoid soccer mom who says things like "writing on your skin will give you ink poisoning!!!" and no one can tell me differently.
> 
> Sorry about the late update! I was traveling, and then I had a bad cough, and now I have pink eye. I wrote this chapter as a sad sack creature of sickness and disease, all of you better appreciate. Kind of a short chapter too, but it's meant as a transitional piece so the next one will be longer PLUS I'm going to try to update sooner, when I'm feeling better. The things I do for love. Not child murder, like Jaime Lannister, but you know.


	21. If It Lets Him

_ Sometimes a man wants to be stupid if it lets him do a thing his cleverness forbids. _

(JOHN STEINBECK)

 

 

 

 

She keeps telling him to slow down to account for the ice. Her hand is clutched tight to the door handle, as if she might jump from the car at any moment, the very moment of danger. Petyr isn't shocked; Cat used to get just as worked up about the dangers of driving during the winter. She probably instilled that same caution in her children.

"You're going to fishtail," Sansa warns, her knuckles going white, "and then you'll overcorrect, and then you'll crash, and then I'll die, tragically, and you'll have to tell everyone at my funeral why we were together. And there goes our whole _Fight Club_ philosophy on this." At his raised eyebrow, she explains, "The first rule of fight club is..."

"I didn't know you'd seen that movie," he says, glancing at her, while she jabs her finger in the direction of the windshield, reminding him to watch the road.

She still manages to roll her eyes. "I'm younger than you, I haven't been living under a rock. And," she adds haughtily, "it's a book too. You philistine."

"Philistine? Okay, sweetling, why don't you tell me the author's name?"

"Chuck Palah - Palahn - _shut up._ "

Petyr laughs, but he eases up on the gas and allows the car to drift back to the speed limit. Sansa smiles, relieved, and lets her hand fall away from the door.

 

* * *

 

The tower is fairly empty when they get there, a fact not so surprising considering that it's a Monday morning in the middle of January. The whole excursion takes less time than he thought, from the moment they enter the building (Sansa grumbling all the while about its change in name, as if it had been a direct affront to her) to the moment they leave.

On the 103rd floor, Sansa edges out into the skydeck overlooking the city, her steps as careful as if it were a rocky mountain path and not smooth, unbreakable glass.

"You're afraid of heights?" he says bemusedly from the doorframe.

"No," she replies, blowing an errant lock of hair from her eyes as she continues her laborious journey toward the edge of the box, "this is just unnatural." She finally reaches the other side of the walkway, and she turns to tuck herself into the corner protectively. "And I don't see _you_ coming out here."

Petyr smirks, and takes a few deliberate steps to stand in the center of the small room, entirely without support save the clear floor beneath his feet. He looks down to prove his lack of fear, and Sansa shoots him a glare. Below them the city stretches out, all gray and white and silver, the people and cars moving in a smooth hush, like something from a silent film.

He can remember the first time he ever came here, how impossible it had seemed even without these clear glass boxes to stand in. Even Sansa seems to have forgotten some of her anxiety, and she leans forward slightly to look with him at their feet, watching the scene below.

"Wow," she says, and he nods absently.

"Yeah."

 

* * *

 

It's on their way to lunch near the Art Institute that she decides they need to take a detour to Millennium Park, specifically the horrible statue perched menacingly over it.

"The Bean is a classic," she calls over her shoulder as she leads them to the sizable crowd surrounding the mirrored structure, the people there in heavy coats, hats, and gloves smiling up at their distorted reflections in spite of the cold weather. "Did you know its real name is Cloud Gate?"

"They should call it Hell Gate," Petyr mutters, more to himself than anything else, but Sansa must hear because she turns to face him, walking backwards as they near the sea of people milling around the square.

"You don't like public art?" She tugs him by the arm underneath the statue, where they can look up and see themselves looking down, curved and wavering and surrounded by tourists and residents alike coughing and sneezing and breathing too close together.

"I don't like crowds."

"You don't like fun, you mean," she teases, laughing a little when he shudders as someone hacks out a cough near him. "I promise you won't get sick."

"That's not how viruses work."

"Oh, don't be melodramatic. We'll call this the stock exchange. Just be happy I'm not making you ice skate. Come on," she says, pulling him back to the outside of the statue, where the air is once again cold and dry, and the people stand in chaotic jumbles of twos and threes. Petyr releases his breath, happy to be back in the open, and Sansa pulls out her phone, holding it up to him. "Take a picture of me."

He snaps a shot of her smiling wide, looking up at her reflection. Sansa grins as she inspects the image, pleased with how it turned out, and as she fumbles for a moment to close down the camera, Petyr waits, glancing around until he hears the distinct click of another photo being taken.

"Was that of me?" he asks, and Sansa nods, altogether too pleased with herself.

She holds up the screen to him, and sure enough he can see himself in profile, furrowing his brow in the direction of the street, looking annoyed while around him every other person in the shot smiles and laughs together.

"I think I captured you pretty well," she says, and he smirks, a slight uptick of his lips.

"This is good," he muses. "You have an eye for composition."

Sansa glances down, hiding her smile, and she murmurs, "Thank you," as he hands the phone back to her.

"Don't let it go to your head, dear," he says, and when she shoves him on her way past he can hear the laughter in her voice as she calls for him to hurry up.

 

* * *

 

Sansa stops by the lion statues outside of the museum to watch as a blond teenager juggles pins, a case spread out in front of him filled with the rest of his props and a few odd coins and bills. She drops a few dollars into the case, smiling happily as he winks at her and throws the pins higher in the air.

"It's not so impressive," Petyr comments, watching the spectacle, and Sansa turns to him, her eyebrow raised.

"Are you getting jealous of a street performer?"

"No. That would be ridiculous." He folds his arms, irritated, and she only grins wider.

"I'd like to see you do better," she says, the challenge clear in her voice, and Petyr rolls his eyes, pulling out his wallet.

"Here." He hands two twenties to the kid, who stops his act, slightly confused. Petyr takes the pins from the performer, holds them up in Sansa's direction, as if to say _here, I'll show you,_ and with no more warning he begins to juggle.

Sansa watches, her mouth in an open, excited smile as he tosses the pins in the air and catches them again easily, passing them between his hands. After a few minutes of the act, he stops and she begins to clap.

"You're a dork," she exclaims as he walks back in her direction, the original performer still unsure about why he was paid so much to let someone else work. "I don't know why I couldn't see it before, but you're a major, major dork. Oh my god. You're probably an amateur magician, too. I can't believe you can juggle. This changes everything."

"I don't know why you're so surprised, darling," he replies flippantly, pressing his palm against the small of her back as he leads her up the steps to the museum. "I'm very good with my hands."

Sansa flushes, not entirely from the cold, and it's Petyr's turn to laugh.

 

* * *

 

Just like he once guessed, Sansa's favorite piece at the museum is the Seurat. She stands in front of the painting longer than the rest, letting her eyes travel across the wide canvas, the same shade of blue as the painted sky. Petyr looks at the painting, looks at her.

"Mom and Dad used to drag us all here when we were little," she says. "I think they were trying to make us cultured or something. It only ever worked on Jon. He liked those statues of the tall thin people, the shriveled up ones in the modern section. They pretty much gave up by the time Mom had Rickon, and then we just went to the zoo and the Shedd and stuff, but we used to come here a lot when I was a kid. Arya and I made up a game to make it less boring. We'd try to find ourselves in the pictures. Not _ourselves_ ourselves, but our future selves. Like, she was one of the Greek statues, one of the ones with a bow and arrow, something like that; I was one of the ballerinas. You know. I was always her, too." She points to the woman at the center of the work, straight-backed, holding her umbrella off of her shoulder, holding hands with her daughter. "I was a very fashionable child. Then we'd go shopping or if it was summer we'd go to the beach and then when it was late we'd drive home. Dad would play one of his CDs and Bran and Arya would fall asleep in the backseat and I'd watch the lights of the city disappear in the rearview mirror. And he'd play The Kinks or Johnny Cash or Joni Mitchell or something and then everyone else would fall asleep too, except for me. The lights were too pretty to miss. Sometimes I got to sit in the front and he'd play that one song, you know?" And she starts to sing, quietly, so that only Petyr can hear, " _I fell in love again; all things go, all things go. Drove to Chicago; all things know, all things know._  Do you know that one?" she asks, turning to look at him.

"Yeah," he says. And he kisses her.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, outside of his house, she sits quietly in the front seat of his car, twisting her ring over and over in her hands. After a while, she puts it back on, the heart faced away from her body. She glances up at him, letting out her breath in a rush.

"I said I'd be back by eight," she tells him softly. The clock on the dashboard blinks green: _7:04_.

"I can take you home," Petyr mutters, at the same time that Sansa says quickly, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

His seatbelt is already unbuckled. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss her, so he leans forward, bringing his hand up to touch against her jaw. Petyr can't hear anything except for her breathing, his own, and as he presses forward he closes his eyes.

His phone rings, shattering the silence. He flinches, wonders for half a moment if he can ignore it, but Sansa pulls back, just slightly.

"It might be work," she says, her lips brushing against his as she speaks, her tone so annoyingly reasonable.

"Fuck work."

"Maybe someone's hurt."

"Fuck them," he mumbles, but abruptly her phone buzzes. Sansa pulls away entirely, smiling apologetically, and as she begins to search through her purse Petyr groans, scrubbing his hand across his face as he fishes his cell from his pocket.

"Whatever it is," he hisses into the receiver after he answers it, "it better be fucking important."

Varys is serious on the other end of the line, his voice clear and hard as he speaks in the clipped tone he reserves for clients. "Before you react, Baelish, I want you to remember that no one's dead." The man sighs, then, as if unable to help himself, adds, "Not yet, anyway."

In the passenger seat, Sansa sits up suddenly, her posture straightening.

"Arya?" she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I feel kind of bad ending on this ominous note, but hey, you guys couldn't seriously have expected this and the last chapter to be indicative of where this fic is going? IT WAS THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM YO. I will say that you shouldn't be too worried, though, as this is considerably less tragic and more low-stakes than asoiaf. But it is a reminder that this fic began as it will end: in angst. With some fluff. And hey, this means! you guessed it!!! the Starks are coming back!!!!! Watch out, motherfuckers.
> 
> Oh, and if you didn't already know, the song Ned used to play is "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens. I don't know a single Catholic Chicagoan who hasn't heard it, although I'm sure such a creature exists. Interesting story too: the song immediately following it on the CD (Sufjan Stevens Invites You to Come On! Feel the Illinoise!; a great album title) is "Casimir Pulaski Day," possibly one of the saddest songs of the mid-2000s. "In the morning when you finally go/and the nurse runs in with her head hung low/and the cardinal hits the window."
> 
> Petyr also knows sleight of hand magic. Don't pretend he didn't teach himself this shit in grade school.


	22. An Inartistic Manner

_ It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. _

(OSCAR WILDE)

 

 

 

 

 

The girl is staring at him. Around them the waiting room bustles with frantic energy, and that's good, that's familiar, but the girl is still watching him with her wide, dark eyes. The same as Lyanna's. Petyr had only seen the woman once, just the one time, but even he can see the resemblance. If Sansa looks like her mother, then her younger sister takes after her father's family, both in appearance and in nature, from the sharp jut of her chin and the short bob of nearly black hair framing her face, to the eternally dour expression that marks her as a Stark in repose. She wears no makeup aside from the thick, black liner edging her lashes, but while Sansa puts on makeup as a matter of decoration, her sister seems to use it as a kind of war paint.

They're a few chairs apart, and she stands suddenly to sit beside him, her gaze sure and unwavering. Petyr shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, though careful not to let it show in his posture or his features, wondering why on earth Sansa had to be the one to take her brother to get something to eat. Why leave him alone with her younger sister? Even worse, he knows she saw them, knows she watched, unblinking and silent, as he dropped Sansa off at the house to get the car.

"I have to drive them," she told him, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice as he made a sharp turn, too fast, so that she slid toward the door. Her knuckles were turning white as she gripped at the handle, just like before. "Arya doesn't have her license yet."

Still, she was reasonable, logical after she hung up the phone. She knew immediately that he couldn't just drive them all to the hospital: what if someone saw? The questions would be too much to answer, about why she wasn't already home, why they were together. She needed to go home, get the car, take her younger brother and sister to the hospital, and he would follow after, separately. He's a family friend, after all, as far as everyone is concerned, and Varys called to tell him the news; no one would be surprised to see him at his own workplace to make sure Catelyn is alright and help out her children.

Sansa's younger brother was oblivious enough, clinging as he was to his sister's waist as they stood waiting on the porch, his expression showing only confusion and fear - instinctive, animal fear, the kind Petyr has seen hundreds of times before, for how else would he have known. When it was Petyr who pulled up into their driveway to drop Sansa off, not Jeyne, it didn't mean anything to the youngest Stark, too young and frightened to sense anything wrong with the picture. But it did to the girl.

"Do you remember my name?" she asks him, her voice so sudden as to cause him to startle slightly. She had not said a single word since he arrived at the hospital, but only shook her head when Sansa asked if she wanted any food.

"It's -"

"Arya."

Petyr nods. "I know. Why did you think I wouldn't?"

"Because you always forgot. When you saw us. Sometimes you'd know it one minute and forget the next." She inclines her head toward the hall, in the direction of where her siblings disappeared. "You didn't know Rickon's name either, or," and she flinches, just barely, just enough for him to notice, "or Bran's. You only ever remembered Sansa."

"I know your older brothers," he protests half-heartedly. As he does, he realizes something suddenly, and he takes a breath to ask, but Arya is already shaking her head.

"Robb's out of town," she says, predicting his question. "New York. He's not getting back until tomorrow night."

"And why -"

She snorts, derisive, and gives her head a quick, angry shake. "Why doesn't he get an earlier flight? They hardly ever ask interns to help out at the New York branch. They'll want to make him an associate after he graduates. 'I can't just leave, Arya,'" she imitates, making her voice lower, adding in a patronizing undertone that she must have heard in the conversation. "'They're okay for now, right? It'll just be a day. Sansa will take care of it until I get there.'"

"And Jon?"

Again, she shakes her head. "Can't afford the ticket. There's a late flight from Seattle with a few seats left, but he can't swing it. He's getting his girlfriend to pitch in, but he might not be able to make it until the end of the week."

Petyr rolls his eyes, relaxing a little in his chair. The girl is all sharp angles and directness, and he likes this about her. It's useful, in situations like these. She'd do well working in an emergency room. "Probably spent all his money on art supplies."

Arya only looks at him coldly. She doesn't speak for a while, long enough to make him uncomfortable again, but finally she replies coolly, "Jon's not an artist."

He straightens up. "What?"

"He takes classes at a community college, he does a few illustrations for some money, but that's not his _job_. He's a security guard. Did Sansa tell you he was an artist?" At his nod, she tilts her head, considering him carefully. "She always likes to call him that. I think she likes to make him feel like he has direction. And she feels bad about being a bitch to him when we were younger."

"She's a nice girl, your sister," Petyr mutters. "So as of right now she's the next of kin, is she?"

"Uncle Edmure says all the flights out of Boston are cancelled for tonight and tomorrow, and Aunt Lysa's not picking up the phone, so yes."

"They're going to want to talk to her, ask her questions." He can picture it, suddenly, Sansa surrounded by the ICU nurses, the trauma surgeons, the thousand different lawyers Cersei has no doubt already secured, and all of them demanding answers and responses and signatures that she shouldn't have to give, doesn't need to deal with now. Not with her mother and brother somewhere in this godforsaken building, open and bleeding on carefully sterilized tables - not with _Cat_ open and bleeding, he thinks, then shoves the name from his mind. Thoughts like that are less than useless right now. "Call your brother, alright."

"I already told you, Robb -"

"Jon." Petyr unearths his wallet from the coat he has draped over the back of the chair, sliding his credit card from one of the slots. "Give him the information, tell him I'll pay for it. The next possible flight, you got it? He should get here late, but he can help her tonight and tomorrow. I'll handle everyone until then. I have a friend in the ICU. And in legal."

Arya goes still, narrowing her eyes at him. She reaches out, too fast for him to get out of the way, and grabs at his arm, rolling up the sleeve. She runs her eyes over his skin, her sister's handwriting there.

Petyr jerks his arm away, shifting his clothing back into place, but the damage is already done. Of course she recognized it, of course she saw a glimpse of ink and  _knew_  - this girl is so much more observant than he initially anticipated. It was a mistake to let his guard down over the course of their conversation; he should have been telling a story about the car from the first moment they sat down.

"You're screwing her, aren't you," Arya says flatly.

"No," he replies, and it isn't a lie, but he continues, "there's nothing going on between me and your sister," and _that_ is. Petyr has gotten very good at lying over the years - even beyond the natural ability he had as a child, it was practically a requirement for every job he ever had - but the younger Stark girl is not one to be so easily misled. He feels certain he could have convinced her in other circumstances, but she's seen too much to be fooled. In his experience, most people want to believe whatever he tells them, especially the nice things, but Arya Stark must be one of those rare creatures who prefers the truth, at any cost.

"Cut the bullshit, doc." She's impertinent and insolent and much smarter than she lets on, and he admires it even as he's annoyed by it. "It doesn't matter to me either way, if you actually _are_ sleeping with her or if that's just something you're working toward. Don't try to pretend you aren't, I'm not some little kid and I'm not blind. And I'm not going to tell my mom, if that's what you're worried about."

He blinks, takes a breath. "Why -" he begins, but she interrupts him quickly.

"Because it's not my place," she says. "Sansa's my sister, but that part of her life is none of my business. She can make her own choices, and besides, I don't think you're as shitty as her last boyfriend, even if you're _way_ too old for her. But I want you to listen to me, Dr. Baelish." She fixes her eyes on his, her gaze cold and unflinching. "You see her for a few hours, a few times a week. I live with her. I have known my sister for my entire life; there hasn't been a single day of my existence without her in it. And _I_ was there last year, you weren't. _I_ had to watch her not eat dinner before she went to see Joffrey, _I_ had to hear her through the vents when she cried alone in her room. Not you. Whatever you're trying to do, it doesn't matter. But I won't watch that again. Do you understand me, doc? I won't watch it again."

He nods, slowly, making no indication one way or the other if she's right in her assumptions, and the girl seems satisfied enough. She faces forward again in her chair, and he thinks she might be done speaking to him, having said what she wanted to say, but after a minute she inhales sharply once, twice, three times, until her breathing is unsteady and strained.

"I know he's already gone," she gets out between pulls of air, glancing up at him from the corner of her eye. "I know it wouldn't change anything, but do you think -"

"No," he says, and he's surprised when he almost feels bad for the words, "there's nothing anyone could've done."

She nods again quickly, blinking fast, her breath still shaky and irregular, and she reaches into her coat pocket to pull out an inhaler. Petyr watches as she brings it to her mouth, the first tear falling from her wide, dark eyes when she closes her lips around the white plastic. He can't remember, he realizes, if Sansa told him that Arya is fifteen or sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is truly a wasted opportunity that Petyr and Arya don't interact more. ALSO! Someone is showing up next chapter! I will give you a hint: this person has not appeared in the story before. Plus Sansa's coming back, don't worry, guys.
> 
> I know some of you probably really like Robb, but I honestly think that although he's not a bad person, he can have a selfish streak when it suits him. He does sometimes choose his own interests over other people's, so in the modern world I think that would also translate to work being more important than a family emergency, particularly work as high pressure and appearance-dependent as corporate law. Plus, he's a guy in his early twenties, and guys in their early twenties tend to think that every moment they exist is the most important moment of their lives.
> 
> Also, I have no clue why, but I always headcanon modern Arya as having asthma. Like, young Arya having it pretty bad so everyone dotes on her, and she doesn't like everyone treating her like a delicate flower, so then she starts doing breathing exercises and playing soccer and generally doing all the things everyone told her she couldn't. And then with the stress of Ned dying it gets worse again and she has to use her inhaler more. And then I make myself sad.


	23. The Way the Song Goes

_ There should be just one safe place _  
_ in the world, I mean_  
_ this world. People get hurt here. People fall down and stay down and I don't like_  
_the way the song goes._

(RICHARD SIKEN)

 

 

 

 

"Brienne says Jaime's going to lose the hand." Ros turns back to glance at him as she walks through the hall, checking in on each room, the barest of glances before moving on. Any other nurse, and Petyr would think them negligent, but Ros is wonderfully, anomalously competent. "Nothing in his system, no alcohol, no drugs. They think he just fell asleep at the wheel." She snorts. "What a cliche. And he always thought he was so special."

"Well," Petyr replies darkly, "at least we know his career is fucked. There's no coming back from this."

She lets out her breath in a tired sigh as she reaches the end of the hall, finally facing him head-on. "All those years, all that money, and for what? A minute of carelessness. At least Stannis finally got a replacement."

"Really? Who is it?"

She shrugs. "Some guy Tyrion recommended, Bronn something-or-other. You know, it's funny. Guys like that always think they're so irreplaceable, but really it only takes two weeks and some change and it's like they were never here in the first place. Anyway, didn't you want to know about Catelyn Stark and her kid?" At his nod, she begins walking past him again, not waiting to see if he'll follow. "God, it was a mess. You should be glad her other kids weren't here when they brought them in. How many does she have again?"

"Five," Petyr says. "Six, if you count Ned's lovechild."

Ros laughs, high and almost mean, just like he has always known her to. "These Catholics, I swear to all that is holy," she says, beginning to wander away. "They breed like rabbits."

"Pay attention, Ros." He touches his hand against her arm to keep her still, but she only glares at him in reply, raising an eyebrow until he holds his hands up, away from her. "You still haven't told me anything."

"Remind me of why I talk to you at all?"

"I'm the only man here who can have a conversation with you without trying to fuck you."

She scrunches her nose, disgusted. "Really? Is that it?"

"Unfortunately for you, yes."

Ros raises her eyes to the ceiling, probably reminding herself that she needs this job to pay her rent. She has told him as much several times before. "The mother's fine. A little banged up - what was it?" She huffs out another sigh, rubbing the heel of her palm hard over her temple, trying to remember without a chart in her hands. Petyr tries to rein in his irritation, reminding himself that she deals with cases like these too often and unlike him she has no prior warning, but he does a poor job of it. "A few cracked ribs, a concussion, lacerations on her arms and legs. Oh, she was impaled."

" _Impaled?_ "

Ros groans. "Relax, Petyr, it's not like it hit anything major. There was just a lot of blood. Doesn't help that she's in shock. She'll need time, but she'll live."

"Okay," he breathes, nodding absently. "Okay." He turns away, about to leave, when she calls out his name again.

"Wait, alright. You didn't even hear about the son yet." She catches up with the few steps he had taken, and she lowers her voice as she speaks, glancing around as if checking to see if anyone is listening. "It's him you should be worrying about. He's still in surgery, but the EMTs got it wrong. They thought his legs got the worst of it, they were all crushed and broken, but now they're saying the problem is his _spine_."

"Christ."

"Two minutes," she mutters. "That's all it took for Jaime to ruin the kid's life. I wonder if Catelyn will ever forgive him."

"You don't know Cat like I do," Petyr says, and this time he does start walking away, Ros trailing after. "In her family, irresponsibility is a sin all its own. That, my dear, is unforgivable."

 

* * *

 

Sansa is gone for nearly ten minutes before Petyr finally offers to go get her. Arya says nothing, only raises her eyebrows and gives him a look that says she knows everything. He keeps his face blank, betraying only the most platonic, appropriate concern, and she doesn't stop staring at him, and the younger brother isn't paying attention, so Petyr decides to cut his losses and walks away without another word. There's no one there worth convincing.

It's only a little ways down the hall before he comes across a single stall bathroom, the coppery door handle locked when he tries it.

He knocks once, calls through the wall, "Sansa?" Then: "It's me."

She doesn't respond, but after a moment he can hear the sharp click of metal on metal as the lock unlatches. After another moment, the door swings open. When he steps into the room, he's surprised to see Sansa sitting on the ground, her arm drifting back to her lap. She doesn't stand when she sees him; she doesn't move at all.

He closes the door and, after a few seconds of deliberation, sinks to the ground beside her. He cringes as he stretches out his legs, the bathroom so small that his feet nearly touch the other wall. He could almost shudder to think about what must be getting on his clothes, but he pushes the thought away for another time and turns to look at Sansa.

This close, he can see that she's been crying. Her face is pale, the makeup she had been wearing earlier all scrubbed away, leaving her strangely colorless. Yet even more telling are her eyes, the blue so bright and shining, but the whites tracked through with branches of red veins. They flicker over to search his face, her head turning the smallest of degrees, and then suddenly she's climbing on top of him, her knees knocking so hard against the tiled floor he can hear it echo in the small space, her thin hands fumbling to clutch at his collar as she connects her mouth with his.

It's harsh, the kiss. She can't quite manage the rhythm she seems to want, her teeth getting in the way of her tongue, biting his lip, into his mouth, her entire body pressed against his like the pressure will do something. Will make her feel something.

So he presses back, his hands moving under her shirt and along her torso to span the length of her sides, his fingers feeling the ridges of her ribs stretching beneath her skin, the muscle he knows is underneath, tendons, blood, bones, organs, heart pumping. He lets her slide her tongue into his mouth and pushes against it with his own, but he guides her without words into another rhythm, one that matches and follows and makes sense with the flicker of the pulse in her neck. He slows her so that her shoulder no longer knocks into the white underside of the sink, her mouth no longer stutters chaotically against his, her body no longer feels like a jumble of exposed nerves, open endings.

He does well in calming her down until he feels the trip of her fingers at his hip, the clumsy attempt to undo his belt buckle.

He holds fast at her wrists, his breath hitching in his throat, an involuntary reflex.

"Don't you want to?" She leans back to look at him as she says it, biting her lip, trying to play at coyness though the tremor in her voice betrays her. Her eyes are still glassy, still tired and wide and miserable.

He could, he knows this. He wants to. He's done worse things. He can picture it abruptly, how she'd need to stand to get her jeans off, how she'd need to put her hands against the wall to steady herself, how she would cringe as he entered her. He can see her knees aching against the unforgiving tile, her shoulder still hitting that damned sink, and if it really would be her first time, the blood between her legs staining her clothing. It would hurt her when she wanted it to feel good, and she would cry, he knows that with certainty, she'd cry before it was over. And _after,_ well. She wouldn't even want to look at him, would she? She would hate him, for taking advantage, for fucking a crying girl on a dirty bathroom floor, worst of all for not thinking of all of this beforehand. Worst of all for being _careless_.

If he were the artistic type, he'd probably call it poetic - one night of passion, and they part ways. Cat's daughter perfectly recreating the past, with a few alterations for the sake of the story, Petyr following his role without knowing it's a role, not until it's already too late. The kind of thing in movies that don't make a dime, novels that no one ever reads: cosmic justice, karma, destiny, fate.

He won't be content with one night. He doesn't need poetry, he doesn't want fate; he wants her.

Petyr guides her hands away, letting them fall back to her stomach, letting her pull herself back together, increment by increment. "Yes," he says. "But this isn't exactly how I pictured it."

Sansa slumps, abandoning the half-hearted seduction entirely, her entire body sagging toward the floor as if she were a marionette with a cut string, but he hasn't made her cry again at least. She just looks hollow, empty, like something has been taken out of her. She bends so that her hair obscures her face, so that he can't see her, and leans forward until her head falls onto his shoulder.

He stiffens, unsure of how he should be responding. He's provided comfort countless times as a doctor, as a warm body to put arms around until someone, anyone, whoever, it doesn't matter, can stand on their own, but that's only a part he needs to play for an endless line of drowning people. Nothing that actually means anything to him.

"How old were you," she says, the sentence muffled by his clothing, "when your parents died?"

"Two when it was my mother," he tells her. "I never really knew her. Thirty when it was my father."

She swallows, and her voice is thick when she speaks again. "Will it always hurt this much?"

"No. Not always."

"I know it's dumb, thinking it's just me, but I - it feels like it is. It feels like I'm the only one." She tucks her hands to her chest so that they rest against him, between them. He can feel her palms, cold even through his shirt, and every time he takes a breath a few strands of red hair wisp away from her head before floating back into place. "What if Bran can never walk again?"

"Then he'll use a wheelchair," Petyr replies.

"I shouldn't've left," she mutters, her fingers clenching fabric, and the phrase is so certain he knows it's one she's been repeating, a mantra in her head as real and binding and terrifying as a prayer to God. He's heard things like that before, too many times,  _if I just apologize enough, if I'm really really sorry, then maybe, maybe, maybe_. "I should've been there -"

"You didn't let a three year old wander alone around a pool," he cuts in. "All you did was take a day off."

The sentiment, as callous as it is, doesn't seem to upset her more. She's quiet as she shifts against him, and Petyr is reminded abruptly of just how uncomfortable it is sitting on the floor, Sansa heavy on his legs, her body a curve of red hair and pale skin and her head still resting on his shoulder.

"I don't know if I ever told you," he says, and his next words are odd even to him, they sound strange to his ears: "I'm sorry that your father died."

And it's true, that's the worst part. He couldn't have cared less about Ned Stark, even about Catelyn's husband, but he's sorry for that much. For that little. For Sansa's father dying.

Sansa lets out an approximation of a sob that chokes and strangles halfway between her throat and her mouth, tightening her grip on him the way she would a tether to the earth. "I tried," she says, still trembling in his arms. "I really did, Petyr."

She doesn't say anything for a while after that, just allows her breathing to slow and even itself out. But eventually she remembers herself and stands, shaking her hair out of her face. She turns back to inspect her reflection in the mirror, bringing her arms up to her head to fix her appearance. He stands too, dusting his clothes for invisible particles of dirt that might have clung to the material.

"I'll be fine," she continues, more to herself that to him. She swipes hard over her cheeks, presses her palm against her mouth. "It's just been a bad night, that's all." Her eyes flicker up to meet his in the mirror, and there is that blue again, so startling in color it could throw a lesser man off balance. Petyr keeps his hand on the doorknob just to be sure.

"I'll be there in a second," she tells him. "You go on ahead."

He thinks for a moment about saying something else, but instead he only nods and opens the door to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably could have divided this chapter into two parts, but I didn't feel like it, so there. But yeah, driving in the Chicago winter is a fairly dangerous activity to undertake, and not something to be incautious about. And Jaime is not the most cautious person, to be entirely honest, so.
> 
> Also, I didn't use one of my favorite parts of "Road Music" for the quote, but it is just perfect:
> 
> He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest   
>  where a heart would fit perfectly   
>  and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place—   
>  well then, game over.


	24. Have It All Arranged

_ We have it all arranged in our minds, and the less often we see a particular person, the more satisfying it is to check how obediently he conforms to our notion of him every time we hear of him. Any deviation in the fates we have ordained would strike us as not only anomalous but unethical. _

(VLADIMIR NABOKOV)

 

 

 

 

 

He's already halfway down the hall when he sees all of them gathered in a cluster near the gift shop, and it's too late to turn and walk in the other direction. He can handle one Stark at a time, but Jesus Christ, there's _five_ of them, and that's not to mention Edmure, who has, fuck, now noticed Petyr and is raising his hand, and is calling, "Doc! Hey, doc!"

Petyr plasters on a smile and makes his way over to them, while Edmure continues to stare at him with an open grin, his eyes alight in clear excitement. "Baelish! I thought it was you." Edmure reaches out his hand for Petyr's and shakes it vigorously with his entire arm. "It's been what, ten years?"

"Eleven," he corrects too quickly, then dulls the edge of the reply with, "I think. Bush was president."

Edmure nods, chuckling a bit, still apparently blown away by seeing an old acquaintance in his city of residence, at his work place. Petyr glances from Edmure, and he can't be blamed if his gaze immediately goes to Sansa, she just stands out so much more than her siblings. All that red hair, it'd be strange if he didn't look at her first. He only looks for half a moment before he turns his attention to the other Starks: Rickon smaller and younger than his brothers but his face already beginning to show traces of them in the eyes, in the jaw; Arya with that sweep of smudged black liner, her expression neither friendly nor hostile, just neutral, as she stares at the man in front of her; Robb tall and handsome as his father, though his looks are something close to his maternal uncle's, head tilted with that arrogant certainty befitting his family's name and reputation; Jon dressed in dark colors better suited to a rainy Seattle day than a sterile hospital hallway, standing too far away from his half-siblings to be entirely natural, yet not so obviously on the periphery either. An admirable tactic to be sure, one he must have learned well over the years, one that would fool the inexperienced observer.

Petyr is not inexperienced.

He does give himself one small allowance, glances again at Sansa. It's only a second, but he can see that she looks better than she did a few days earlier, more relaxed, happier now that reinforcements have arrived. The clothes she's wearing aren't suited to the weather, tights under a dress under her winter coat, but Cat did say that Sansa always had trouble with dressing for the cold. Her eyes, when he meets them, are calm and quiet and considering. It's only a second, and then he tears his gaze away like pulling nails from concrete.

"Eleven years," Edmure is saying. "Shit, man. I was hoping I'd run into you." He shrugs, whistles low. "Not a great occasion to come to town, but you know, that's the way it goes sometimes."

"How are they?" Petyr asks, making sure to keep his voice quiet and sensitive, kind. "I haven't had a chance to check all day."

"Better," Edmure breathes out heavily. "They're saying Cat will be able to come home soon, and Bran -" His grin falters, just briefly, just barely, just enough, "He's a tough kid, huh?"

"Of course."

"But enough about that," he continues, shaking his head as if to clear the thought, "there's time for that later. How the hell are you, Bael- oh, holy shit, man, do you remember what we used to call you?"

Arya tilts her head, suddenly listening to the exchange. "What did you used to call him?"

"Oh, it was a stupid nickname I came up with that just stuck," Edmure explains. Petyr can feel his smile freezing on his face, but no one seems to notice, at least, engaged as they are in their own side conversations. Not that anyone ever has. "Back then we used to all call him Littlefinger. Now that I think about it, it would've taken less time to just call you by your first name. Isn't that funny?"

Arya huffs out a short laugh, and she fixes her attention on Petyr. "Why Littlefinger?" she asks, her voice slightly too loud, and Sansa nudges her sister very suddenly and sharply in the side, glaring at her when she looks up. Arya does nothing but glare in reply, but after a long moment looks away, seeming to concede the victory to her older sister.

Petyr cuts off Edmure before he can reply to the girl's question, says, "When I was a child I was very small, and I moved here from a place everyone calls the Fingers. Your uncle was always clever, if a bit crude. Suits him well, I'd say. Come to think of it, didn't I hear you just got promoted, Edmure? Congratulations."

"You heard right," he says, smiling wider, "and with any luck I'll get promoted again, and soon I'll be able to make half of what you do. Actually, I was hoping I'd see you in your scrubs, but I guess we really can't always get what we want."

"Well, my shift's over now, you just missed it. I'm heading out, so -"

"What a coincidence," Edmure exclaims. "So are we. Rick here -" and he tousles his nephew's hair, the boy laughing as he shrugs away from Edmure's hand, "wanted to see that new movie, you know, the one with the robots and the guy."

"There's that trademark Tully vagueness I've been missing. Does the movie also have that one girl?"

"Fuck off," Edmure replies, then covers his mouth with one hand. "Oh shit. Rickon, we don't say words like that. Anyway, Baelish, we're all going. Well, except for Sansa, because she wants to break my heart."

Sansa feigns a gasp, turning her attention from Robb to her uncle. "I'm not breaking your heart, you know someone has to feed the dogs."

"They've been antsy all week," Edmure mutters to Petyr. "Don't like all the new people coming through the house, and Lysa's kid has been torturing the poor things. You know how he is."

"Like a natural disaster."

"Exactly. Anyway, you're welcome to join all of us for dinner, we should catch up."

"Some other time, maybe," Petyr replies, as amiable as ever, though he speaks half through his teeth. "It's been a long day, I just want to get back and sleep for twelve hours."

The other man sighs, his disappointment demonstrated with an exaggerated slump of his shoulders. "First Sansa, now you. Must be some sort of conspiracy," he jokes.

"That's the idea," Petyr says. "I really should get going, but come back around before you leave town. We'll get coffee or something." He wouldn't normally suggest such a thing, but Edmure always did have trouble following through on plans.

"Sure, sure, no problem. We'll definitely do that." He nods to himself, then turns his focus back to his relatives. "Now, one of you needs to remind me where I parked the car."

"In the front lot," Sansa answers, then turns to her brother and holds out her hand. "Robb, I need the keys." Her brother drops a silver set of keys into her palm, and she smiles, wide and brilliant, as she mock bows. "Thank you."

"It's parked in the garage," he tells her, gently knocking his fist into her shoulder. "Call when you get there."

"Of course," she says, her eyes softening slightly before she brightens up again. "Now, just remind me how to get to the garage from here."

"Quickest way is the side entrance," Petyr supplies, "that's where I am too. Here, I'll walk you."

"Thanks, Dr. Baelish," she murmurs, shifting a little on her feet. Her eyelashes flicker against her cheeks as she glances up at him, then away again.

Sansa says one last thing to her brother, too quiet for Petyr to hear, and grins briefly as she waves goodbye to her family when they walk out through the front doors, her younger sister the only one to look back, slight confusion plain on her features before she turns to speak to Jon.

Petyr holds out his hand, gesturing for Sansa to lead the way, and she does as they begin to walk, her shoes clicking rhythmically on the tile. For a minute, that's the only sound either of them makes, the quiet even more apparent when they exit the hospital and find themselves in the parking garage. The light there is dull yellow, sapping everything around them of color, making her seem like something out of an old movie. One where women are called dames and their legs seem to go on forever and, by the end, they always bring the man to his knees.

"Your sister is interesting," he says abruptly, breaking the silence, and to his surprise Sansa actually laughs.

"She scare you?" she asks, cocking her head, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "She's kind of a scary person."

"No," he scoffs, but Sansa only smiles wider.

"That's what they all say." She stops in place, near a silver car parked neatly between the lines. "This is me."

"Alright," he says, taking a step forward, closer to her. "I'm over there."

"Okay." Sansa seems amused by the way he's uncertain, the way he's lingering too long, longer than he would if she wasn't - _something_. To him. "I'll meet you there then."

Petyr nods reflexively, then: "What?"

"You haven't met the dogs," she states, as if it were obvious, clicking the unlock button on her key. She slips between cars, fingers curled loosely around the handle, and tilts her head as she opens the door. "You're not an animal person, are you?"

He shakes his head, unable to do anything else.

"This'll be good," she says, laughing again, and slides into the driver's seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting factemundo: there is a kind of light that actually does make everything look colorless, since it's yellow and it only reflects off of yellow things. It is cool, and then it is very quickly eerie. It used to be used in factories and shit because it was cheap af, but then workers there would become depressed and commit suicide and it was ruled unethical, but it's still used in some parking garages because it's low-cost.
> 
> So I realized I might have written Petyr as very similar to Spike. Just that scene in "Fool For Love" on the porch where he puts his hand on Buffy's back. You know? Soulless guy trying to demonstrate the most basic human empathy for a girl with pretty hair. Except he doesn't have the black leather duster or the bleach blonde hair.
> 
> Oh my god, idea: Petyr Baelish in the asoiaf world with a black leather duster and bleach blonde hair. Everything else exactly the same.


End file.
